There’s a full moon out tonight. My face in the grass feels good, but I don’t want it to. I want the person 6 feet under to be offended. I wish this felt wrong. Morally objectionable. But it doesn’t. Maybe I’m just too inconsiderate to notice. I chose this headstone because the rain and wind has almost completely obliterated the engravings. It takes a long time for stone to erode this far. So if there is a spirit lingering in it’s grave, it should be old and powerful.
           

And it better be angry. Homicidal, rage against the living, angry.

I don’t know why I don’t have anything better to do. My imagination is the only thing that has stuck around. Never ask me to do math. Logical thinking, chemical equations, anything that doesn’t concern some crack-pot, mad-hatter fantasy thinking. This is how I spend my nights. All my nights. It’s nearly midnight. I could be sleeping. I could do my homework. I could pick up a hobby-I always wanted to know how to make soap, or candles. Knit a scarf. It’s getting cold.

But I’m here, in the graveyard, laying on some nameless Joe’s plot. Hoping that I’m offending them so their ghost will rise, thick and white like dry ice smoke. It would exist purely on its hate for the world of the living, the world of the day-walkers, and it would absolutely abhor myself. It should, preferably, be a man-a woman with long white flowing hair that becomes indistinguishable with her dress and a tear-strained face would be tolerable, but not what I want. A man in tattered clothes, top-hat and suit (Victorian Era, of course,) shredded and bloody for evidence of his vicious murder. A broom moustache and a broken nose holding bent glasses. Missing teeth and bad breath. There needs to be a gender division between us. Weird pseudo-necrophilia tension, since love is impossible. Our socio-economic differences are obvious. Women aren’t scary…they’re just pitiful. They’re mothers I already have. Or otherwise slain virgins. But if anything, anything really, rose from the plot I’m laying on…well, it can do anything at that point. It would be better if it took its revenge out on me, though. It’s not like anyone would believe me if I went to the papers and told them, anyway.

Local Hick Sees Ghost?

Cemetery Flake Loses Marbles.

So theoretically, if I died, oh well. At least I found what I was looking for. Not more than, say, a handful of people can honestly say that. I don’t need to know that death isn’t the end. That we all live on as the undead. That there is “the other side” where my loved ones can contact me. No, that’s not what I’m after. I pull up a handful a dirt and grass right down to the roots, and I remind myself that I don’t need to see someone in particular again. Those who have died can stay dead.

I want something to be real. I want to feel something for once.

Maybe it’s the fear that I’m after. The sheer terror that will hopefully strike my heart and leave me in spluttered breathing. Or maybe I won’t see a ghost. Maybe I’ll see a beautiful apparition -like an angel. The vision will elevate my soul and neurons will light up my brain so fast I’ll feel higher than a kite flown in the Himalayas.