paul verlaine, lucky number 9, ghost
requested by lily, for the 666 event
this place feels eerie.
everything begins to feel distant, one moment at a time, with each step, each breath taken.
as time goes, it feels more like watching through the lenses of multiple cameras, all angled at different locations and less like... well, life.
it is your life, in your hands, the ropes waiting to be woven but they are so light you can swear all is just an illusion, a delusion.
just like that feeling you get at the nape of your neck on the most mundane, or random moments.
like someone is watching, observing.
first few times you brush it off as nosy neighbours, coworkers and the likes, people in the market queue that throw you weird looks for the way you dress, walk, act or talk.
yet it only intensifies, the feeling.
even when you're alone, especially when you are alone at the faintest, most fragile of moments you allow yourself a second to breathe, a second to let it all drop and pour down, thundering, lighting, heavy rain that comes from your eyes and mind yet with so little sound.
the mirrors are worse, you decide as you walk past another reflecting surface one afternoon.
it is rather beautiful to see the sky and the setting sun blink from an ugly apartment building's windows, how it preserves its beauty despite the lack of grace the concrete rectangle surrounding the frames.
all these vanish when you find yourself face to face with yourself, or the person you are supposed to be.
a stranger is all your eyes see, someone your brain cannot register. the person you are almost bumping noses with moves the same time as you do, raising the same hand, tilting their head the same direction, blinking with wide, curious and hollow eyes back at you.
a ghost, is all you think of them. and so you walk away.
it carries on like this for so long it becomes a constant in this stream of time and matter people call 'life'.
walk down, glance at the reflecting surfaces, watch the hands attached to your body work and do things, feel like you are watching a show, a part of the audience, indifferent.
return to your bed every night and lie awake for few hours until it strikes 2 in the morning, pull the covers over your shoulders to create the sensation someone is holding, holding you, a hand caressing your arm from behind, a gentle and warm feeling. you should've gotten an extra of that quilt when you had the chance.
lids fall victim to the heavy load of the day and your mind drifts away. wake up, brew yourself something warm, get dressed, get prepared, eat and leave– float through the streets, go through with the routine as always.
do ghosts have feelings?
can they see other ghosts?
you receive your answer one evening as you pass the mirror with the lovely, hand craved frame on your wall. a piece you scored by pure chance a long time ago.
as always you walk and steal a glance, expecting the same stranger who seems to deem conversing unnecessary– the blond man stares back as you pass the mirror, few steps ahead–
and freeze, one foot still in the air, waiting for your neurons to get to work and put it on the hard wooden surface.
moving back, in motion, as if a film rewound, you find yourself in front of the mirror again, staring at the mirror, and the worried eyes of the man.
fair, beautiful yet sad, so so sad– is all you can muster up to describe him.
when the initial shock of it wavers off, and when the man trapped in the mirror, or the ghost?– you have yet to find out, finally manages to calm down; you begin to talk.
either your delusions have upgraded or this is real.
unlike the stranger in the mirror, this man, whom you later know as Paul Verlaine, talks, with a real voice and all.
It is difficult for him, and for you to get used to the situation at first and he isn't fond of relaying his past before your eyes, even though he is dead and you are certain you can look up a couple of things about him– famous or not, people are always recorded in history, one way or another.
truly an experience befitting of a life that feels less real and more like a film, you decide.
his voice is gentle, reminds you of the cool breezes by the sea that strokes your face gently and washes over you with the scent of lives belonging to salt water.
probably out of everything he explains to you, and recites and has trouble understanding when it comes to the more modern ages– what catches you offguard is that he has been watching you, 'watching over you!' as he likes to protest.
it feels somewhat reassuring that you have one less thing on your list making you suspect of something deeply wrong within you.
so when you begin to count places, instances and examples, he confirms that, yes, all that time you felt yourself being watched was him all along.
"I can be sweet." he insists when you laugh at the revelation, saying you didn't expect this from someone so grumpy. "Sometimes." he adds in after a breath.
"To certain people." his voice fills the air again, making it vibrate, and bringing a smile to your lips at this point. "It happens!" he whisper yells, hands thrown into the air and that's when you lose it, bursting into laughter.
he does stay awfully quiet when you bring up the warm feeling of someone comforting you at particular nights though.
maybe all of this is making up for something lost, someone he regrets he didn't take care of, or watched over sufficient enough.
you find you don't mind it though, whatever it is, or whoever it is, the reason behind his actions may be. you do enjoy the company he brings. it doesn't hurt to have company.
and god knows you both desperately need it– needed it.
the past time is important as neither of you seem to wish to part ways in the foreseeable future.
and soon find out he writes the gentlest, most soul wrecking poems. when you cry that night, for the first time in a long while, his hand quickly finding its way to stroke your back.
