untitled

ch 1

Drifting. A word most think they understand. It has a specific definition, an exact meaning. Like all things do, all the normal and right things in the world. Though, you'll never truly understand something until you experience it. That's what I'm doing: experiencing what it truly means to drift. I drift through things and places, old and new. I drift through my many thoughts and unspoken words.

I'm dead. One might call me a ghost or a spirit, energy or manifestation, but the terms are irrelevant. I can't be sure how long it's been, but I tend not to think about my death often -- on purpose anyway. It was 1914 and I was sixteen. I know that my family were religious, and while I wasn't strong in that faith the way they were, I knew I expected something Holy at the end. But there were no golden gates, no angels, no reaper to accompany me into death. Just me and the wind and the lifeless body below me. Whether there isn't a heaven or I just wasn't invited, I wasn't sure. What I was sure of is that I was stuck somehow. I'm not sure that I ever really accepted my death; one second I was breathing, the next I wasn't and that was it. I don't feel sad thinking of it, though I have found it difficult to feel much of anything anymore.

My current existence consists of thinking and wandering. I've paid enough attention to notice the changing world and what comes with it, hearing the adaptations in speech as it changed and watching as technology emerged and became something I don't truly understand. What I find myself doing most often, though, is watching the various interactions that happen all around me, the emotions and expressions I hardly remember the names for. If I were to be envious of anything, if I were able, it would be the ability to communicate. It gets lonely in this head of mine. Just the thought of someone talking to me again, looking at me instead of through me, sends faint echoes of excitement through my silent chest.

Time, such an abstract concept I've come to realize, seems to have shifted into the 21st century. That's where I am now, or rather when I am, walking the crowded streets of Portland, not far from where I'd lived. I swung my arms lightly as I ambled down the busy sidewalk. I passed through many people, staring down at the snaking cracks of the sidewalk, sending visible goosebumps down arms and causing the the tightening of jackets. The ghost of a smirk shifts my face and warms the air slightly; somehow it still amuses me how aware the living seem to be without realizing it. I'll be subconsciously passed along as a mere shift in the wind or the effect of the slow changing of seasons - some rational explanation - but something in them notices me. The thought should comfort me, but actually only dims my sliver of a smile. In the beginning, when I felt more and these things were new, it had been a little fun to experiment with these ghostly things, trying to grasp the attention of those around me, even if only for a second. After a while it had become more of a sick joke, knowing that my strongest impact was nothing more than a breeze and maybe a shiver down their spine. Almost everything got old after enough time doing it, so I constantly searched for new things to fill the void that death left behind. It wasn't just my body that I lost that day, but my being felt hollow as well, like something important had been torn away with my last breath, something I hadn't known I possessed until I no longer did. So I'm often wandering through small stores and shops, every one of which made me feel that small prick of envy. Being stuck eternally in a tattered and bloody sundress makes it hard not to wish. Not to mention the snarled mane of hair, ragged and windblown from its former braid.

A loud laugh caught my attention over the hum of the crowd. I turned, my curiosity piqued. A boy sat on a low stool near the window of a coffee shop, a golden haired girl beside him, both with strikingly similar, and beautiful, features. They shared a wide smile and a sharply angled nose. Their prominent cheek bones gave their wide green eyes dominance on their face. For a reason I couldn't fathom, they intrigued me. Maybe because of the light that seemed to surround them both, a radiance of peace and content that I usually didn't see on others. This was what I noticed most, the laughing and smiling and the authenticity of it. And there was something, almost physical, drawing me toward their moment. As I subconsciously moved closer, I examined the boy, whose face I could most clearly see from this angle. His eyes glittered as he spoke, bright in the sunlight, and his dark hair fell just above his eyes. There was a distinct shimmer around his halo of curls, a colorful and physical ripple that seemed to dance every time he smiled. If I could name it, I would say it looked like happiness. Drifting close as I was, I could just make out his voice.