A man once said,
“If you live in a haunted house, get rid of the ghosts.
If you can’t, get rid of the house from the foundations that were laid.”
But what then do we do if we are true soldiers, ready to die at our posts?
Not defeating the enemy, but not yielding.
Having no sign of victory, yet salivating at the thought of battle.
Not able to fend the adversary off, yet not leaving.
Nestling behind the barricades of our posts, yet within us, unsettled.
An aged woman once said,
“The thoughts that hurt you are the ones that haunt you,
Enslaving you to a past, making you its maid.”
But what do we do if the past, to us, is all that feels new?
The man neither told us how to get rid of the ghosts or the house from its foundations.
The aged woman only helped with new words to describe the same old predicament.
They are all clichés, reminders of our problems, not preferring any solutions.
Clothing our nakedness with thorns and torn rags, thistles, for a garment.
A young lad once said,
“Memories are lone horse riders; they don’t stay in any town for too long.
But an abode, my heart, these hurting flashes of the past has made.
I can hear them scream, “This is where I belong!”
So, I said,
“The man certainly never lived in a haunted house. Only the wearer of a glove knows where it does not fit.
The aged woman is close to her grave; she needs no solution, for in her grave she would soon be laid.
The young lad knows little; give him a decade or two, this saying, he might not repeat.”
Again, this time, with a sternness I sensed within for the first time, I said,
“I would battle not with my past nor sorrow over it any longer.
I would permit the ghosts of my memories, my heart, to raid.
One day, when they see the illumination of my holy nonchalance, they would flee in an unholy anger; no longer will they linger.”
– Fredrick –