I am sitting here in the semi-dark, pushing away the world, pressing farther into that dark place of the soul where I am alone and cold.
I know this place. I am familiar here, a traveler, a high priest of the roadway. Desolate, hidden, strewn with the ruins of the past and the ghosts of memories that lie awake at night.
The ghosts will talk if you let them. They will tell you stories of loves lost, of battles fought, of fatigue and desperation and balance and joy. Tales of pain and woe, of frustration and impotence, of death and destruction. Risk and loss and gain and sustenance.
I like the ghosts. They are like me, lonely and insubstantial, pale wisps in the moonlight that dissolve by the light of day into half-remembered dreams. But at night they have power. Passion, love, and heartache.
And all they want is to be heard. To be noticed. To be taken into the heart and soul of somebody that understands and loves and fits. Somebody to make them real.
The dark time is when the ghosts walk. They whisper in your ear, give you clues to find them if you will just listen.