Ghosts of the Past

Ghosts have nothing worth saying. Indeed, as I see it, they are merely the pale scars of an age wiped over by the advancements of the living. Where Death pretends, experience-rich life and memory authenticate. Life is precious.

Thought you, my cockalorum of a reader, that I have taken a turn? That I am somehow a different person, perhaps free of the tap and all manner of absurd notions? Allow me to explain again how you are utterly wrong.

It is for the reason that life is precious that so few deserve it. Let me be the first to admit this: my mother was a foul witch from the West. Her pompous little hospital for the surviving children of Rheydin paled this infant's importance to her. Instead of leaving me in the sewers of Miruvhor to be forgotten forever, she instead lazily took me half way, and there in the desert I was left to brew my hatreds.

By the time I found the filthy bed-swerver, she was a corpse in the mud.

And then, to test the resolve of the path she intentionally set me upon, bawdy all, she appeared to this drunk as ghost and tempted me to debate some awful answer to my choices! How grandiose her suffering must be in the afterlife planned for her, to be infinitely and powerlessly presented a son who she can do no parenting for! O', you clod, be you keen enough to see how this plot now thickens?

For it is indeed so that all the tidbit, toy-like wisdoms imparted by parents are but nagging, irrelevant ghosts! They rarely so much even penetrate into the consciousness, let alone find roots in our behaviors, after seeing what this world can surely do to us. Where upon we face real ghosts, remember, you cold and dumb idiot: you were drunk on something (think you only alcohol inebriates, you are a pimple still sucking upon your thumb), and your parents have, and always will, fail you. They have copulated to give you life by necessity if you were lucky, for if did they it by desire, they were both suicides.

For those too unnatural to have parents, cover these pages in your tears, for many joyful tears may yet flow from you when the freedom of this conscious burden becomes clearer and clearer in your minds.

Take this encouragement with you. You are terribly and unpityingly free. What you have learned you have chosen to retain, either by relenting or conquering, idea by idea. Those you sprang from agreed, at the moment of their bedroom activity, to become the shadows of the past and pass the oils, the drinks, and the mantle on to you. Wring from this time your fill, and e're "loin" you offspring, do verifiably what is best for your legacy.

Toss your children to the sewers then merrily march toward immortality.

BOEQ