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I have to leave this place.
There are too many ghosts.
Whenever I walk by, the misty clouds of memories that should be water under the bridge consume me, and I can’t see anything else. I can’t speak, or think, or breathe. I just see what was, or could have been.
Chicago. It’s the place I love, the place I can’t stand to be in or to leave.
Because wherever I go, there are ghosts.
Ghosts of people I used to know and trust. Ghosts of people I’ve never met, but observed. Ghosts of old relatives, young relatives, mentors, acquaintances, any sort of person I once had a connection to, but thrown away.
They watch me, laugh at me, or pity me. Some stay and talk, their words carving into my skin, my identity. Then, there’s a second round of attacks, of haunting. And their words go more than skin deep, they sink into my soul and leave indentations, marks, scars, faults. They won’t leave me alone, these bloodthirsty ghosts.
They won’t leave me alone, until I leave.
So. I have to leave this place.
There are too many ghosts.

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