Moving Toward Something
I.
And how is everything else?
How is everything else going?
She punctuates our conversation with the same question over and over again. I can’t tell if she just wants me to keep talking or if she’s getting at something deeper without having to say it.
I tell her everything is going well, don’t worry. I’m afraid she won’t understand if I say: Sometimes I like to walk alone. I like to sit somewhere by myself and try to get as quiet as possible, shrink myself down to nothing but dust.
II.
“Also, I hope it’s quite apparent that, I do believe there is something bigger than us. I just don’t call it God. I call it us, together.”
III.
At dinner we start talking about ghosts, and do you believe in them? I swirl my wine glass and watch the ivory water shift and then settle. Yes, I do, someone says, and then, Me, too, someone else says. They mean ghosts like spirits. Like quick movements you can’t explain except, A feeling, you know what I mean?
But I don’t believe in those ghosts. I think we’re always looking, always searching for something. But we’re too afraid to look at ourselves—to confront our own evils, to discover the terrible things we’re capable of. So we invent ghosts and monsters as a distraction. We look outward. We want Bigfoot, we want Loch Ness, we want Mothman, we want Chupacabra, and aliens, ghosts, creatures that stalk the dark, the supernatural.
We relentlessly hunt for these solitary creatures, hoping for even the slightest glance. Just to say, I saw it once. Just once, I really saw it.
