In the store the man looking at comic books sends chills crashing along my spine. The bags beneath his eyes. The desperation in having someone to talk to. I see those types sometimes. And sometimes I worry it might be foreshadowing my future. I often find myself with the feeling that these people are ghosts, as if I am the only person who can see them. After a few moments of watching people scuttle by, I conclude he is a ghost. Standing in the magazine aisle of a large everything store browsing comic books. Haunting the aisles of department stores waiting for people to see him, waiting to be talked to. I do not find the courage to say hello. I'm a ghost myself, after all. Hovering in the background, observing, over-analyzing everyone. We're all ghosts of some sort. Ghosts of our childhood, ghosts of a moment or memory, lingering perhaps a little too long. I pick up a bar of dark chocolate and leave.
08 January 2012