Of Heartbreak, Salty Porridge and Dead People
Honestly, the ghosts aren´t even the problem. I tend to get along with them better, than most living people. Even the ghosts in my house wouldn't be so bad if they could just stop trying to cook. Seriously if I stumble upon one more failed lasagne attempt, Malcom is gonna have to find another place to haunt with his poor cooking skills.
Yeah, alright, I would never really throw him out. Nor Elaine with her hardly even scrambled eggs or Sir Ludwig and his salty porridge. They belong to this house more than it belongs to me. They have lived here way longer and died here – not in a peaceful way – which ties them to this dusty old house in a way that the living couldn´t even comprehend. They are really being generous in letting me stay instead of scaring me away.
I will never forget how the three of them manifested themselves in front of me, my third night here, when I was crying in the attic over god damn Harvey breaking my heart. Yes, I was shedding tears over a man named Harvey and yes, the only people able to console my stupid lovesick self where a bunch of dead guys. From that night on, they became my confidants, my true friends.
I have actually started meeting more of them out in the world. It´s like they can smell the traces of death on me. So they decide, that I am safe, showing themselves to me at train stations, my workplace or the grocery store. Sometimes it´s just to have a nice chat, help me shopping by pointing out what´s on sale or ask about the news in world politics. Sometimes it´s because they really need someone to talk to about their life or death or even because they have a small favour to ask, that will give them peace. That´s how fast and undramatically one can become I medium, I guess.
No, really, the ghosts are the least of my problems. The rest of this world is. Harvey with his complacent smile and his new girlfriend (who honestly seems really lovely, how dare she?), my clients at the call centre, continuously getting on my nerves by demanding I do my job, all of these people, I see everyday who look through everyone as if they were ghosts, the poverty, the trash, the slow but definitive murder of our environment. I feel like everything is falling apart and the only place, that welcomes me, that is warm, safe and – to be fair – full of burned meals, is my haunted house and the only people, that seem to really care, are the ghosts of long past lives. Maybe it´s death, who will teach us all a lesson about living.
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