Ghost stories

I dream about the life that was killing me. The drinking, the unhealthy relationships, the cold mornings on the train platform and the time spent with my cheek resting on the toilet seat. I miss those things while laying in bed with animals, and a cup of coffee and a partner who deserves me and other good things and what kind of bullshit is that?

Why do I dream about cigarettes and drinking with strangers, while I’m asleep and safe?

In the light of day, I regularly notice how beautiful this sober life is, with new routines that I never would have expected. I don’t understand it. I don’t like it. I want to live fully in this new place. I don’t want to dream of the old stuff, of the darker parts of the story. I want to look forward. I don’t want ghosts. Ghosts that wait until I’m alone, or asleep, to remind me of how I spent those years.

I’m scared of drinking like I’m scared of my partner dying.

I fear a loss of the life I have because I can hardly believe it’s mine.

Does everyone have these dark dreams, these longings that would tear their fragile and beautiful existence to pieces? Why do those ghosts stick around? Do they need something or are they just there to spook me, remind me of how close they really are.

I have made a barricade, of coffee and water, of animal paws and wet noses, homemade food and held hands, of long walks and early mornings, and I won’t have it taken away by a ghost.

Perhaps these ghosts were sent by the very life that I’m living now, to remind me to stay present, to guard the castle of my new life. At night, the beauty that I can scarcely believe is mine, puts on a mask and tells me stories or the way it was. In the morning, I look around, relieved at what’s real.

to be continued…

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