Ghostly Sensations

         Some devilish symptoms have begun to plague me. An odd sweat that breaks with each dawn; the tug behind my sternum at the crashing of waves…yes, something is coming over me, but I know not what it is and fear for its origin. An eventual fate will reveal itself and I will understand what manifested this illness. Though I have only circumstantial evidence of what initiated this, I am keenly aware that I am without power against it.
         My salvation is in the passive acceptance of the malady. While my perceptive ability has assisted in the clarity of this revelation, the resistive nature of my psyche is unable to allow the acceptance to occur. Each moment that passes, I sink deeper into the well that becomes ever darker, ever more mysterious and captivating. The weather within this ailment is cool, causing strained, raspy breathing, but burns at times…searing the ends of fingers and toes.
         I realize that her absence has likely lead to this moment; that the pointed knives of pain and indifference sent my quavering heart down this path, but I am unable to release myself to that knowledge. Not yet; no, not yet. So much time has been spent in futile attempts to understand the course of her path – not mine. Thousands of hours spent staring at old photographs, experiencing ghostly sensations of days that have long passed since she stood in my presence. Perhaps this ordeal is her ethereal call to me to release our love to the winds of time; to release the pain and injury I have internalized in her absence. Perhaps.
         Quiet. Why is it always so quiet here, in this maddening disorder. It doesn't even help turning on the television. Just white noise. The quiet invades me, splits my head in two. So then I leave, run to the bookstore, grab a cup of coffee, let other great minds fill mine. Then, after the book falls to the floor, and the coffee is done, the solace returns. I just wish it weren't so damned quiet.