Danger and Ghosts

There is little in the world sometimes but danger and ghosts.  I prefer times of adventure and fun, but the cosmos doesn't seem to want to foster that just now.  Or so it appears to me.  When I talk to others, I hear no tales of adventure and daring.  I don't think it is just that I am talking to the wrong people, either.  But I  could be mistaken.

Most of the danger I have made for myself.  I don't know which is worse, the sort you make for yourself or the kind that is thoroughly other.  I wouldn't care to be mucking about in the Middle East right now, nor to be a Tibetan in Tibet.  But at least there is something to fight for and something to resist no matter how futile it might seem.  I have fought against myself for long enough to know that any victory there is totally pyrrhic.

And when least appreciated, there are the ghosts.  They pop up when you don't want them to.  Just when you are feeling dead yourself, some sepulcher form arrives to move you.  It is difficult to burry the dead but more difficult to live with them.  And when they come, they arrive in their most attractive form luring you to some unwanted emotion.

The cat is on my feet.  I am alone in the house for the first evening in a long, long while.  Still nothing of any import comes to me, and so I try to make sweet nothings to keep you interested.  Danger and Ghosts, an October Tale.