The door is open. The wind howls, aching with every breath that knocks the wood against the wall. The thuds of every exhalation resound throughout the empty house. The sky rumbles, with flattened clouds that blur and drift like phantoms with no purpose. And as the rain begins to fall, there is no distinction between my tears and those of the ghosts.

The clouds can’t touch the earth and I can’t touch the sky. And it makes me feel like everything is impossible. Like the anxiety that can’t meet excitement. Like the depression that can’t find light. Like the girl who can’t find love. I am the spirit with the specters, seeking harmony with my fears and a purpose for why I exist. And as I sit on a ledge two inches off the ground in a space between an open door and a crying world, I realize there are plenty of ghosts that haunt me so that I won’t step out that door. And for a moment, I am one with all of those who’ve shed a tear.

The cement is speckled with tiny damp circles. The wind carries the rain into my shelter and the cool drops of liquid shower my body. My skin prickles and I smile at the heavens.

This is the way the sky reaches the earth. 

I stand and place a bare foot on the concrete and allow the drizzle to drown my fears, my worries, my sorrows. As water slides along my skin, I realize I am not a ghost. I am one with many, and we are alive.


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