Death: The final frontier.

Death really fascinates me. I see the ghost of a dead drummer wandering around my room in the wee hours of the morning. I dream of dying. I dream of pets, family members, friends, loved ones dying in mysterious accidents. I dream of deaths that haven't even happened yet. I imagine ways I could die, one day. I create extravagant death fantasies in my mind. I don't care what this makes me look like. The thought of ghosts always gave me a generally creepy-crawly feeling all through my bones. When I was younger, I stayed up nights, playing with the clown. I'm convinced that sense of perception to the supernatural is heightened at a younger age, and slowly dwindles, as we're taught to believe that such apparitions are absurd and made up. I still believe in them, and I hope I always do. I realise now, about the "good" and "bad" vibes I can get from different energies. Keith comforts me, makes me feel warm and safe. When he's sad, I feel anxious.. on edge.

I've felt a malicious spirit before. I've seen the man who claimed to have pushed my mother down the stairs when she was pregnant. This claim was made through a Ouija board, but I've seen him. I've felt his presence, and shivered at it. I've heard my name whispered in the dark by nameless voices. I've felt anonymous arms slide around me in an embrace that lasted the night. I've seen the faces and figures of more than one, lit only by the ambient light in the room. I've seen the soft, loving eyes of a crazy piper. I've felt the warm touch of a friendly, eccentric, long lost friend in the dead of the night. I've met the familiar embrace of a relative, lost too soon to an incurable disease.

I still hear his slippers shuffling across the carpet as he settles into his chair to watch the baseball game; same time every night, like clockwork. I disctinctly recall that green crystal ashtray shaped like a shoe, where he'd ash the occasional cigar.

I still hear the purr of his motorcycle as I'm seated on the back of it, strong arms lifting me up. I remember the feel of his stubbly cheek against mine when he scooped me into his arms and hugged me like he'd never see me again.

I never knew the smell of his clothes, or the feel of his hair between my fingers. I can't recall laying against him, peacefully, as his chest rose and fell beneath me; the sounds of his breaths lulling me to sleep. I can't remember what I have not experienced, but I have these sensations; these smells and memories and private films that play on the insides of my eyelids as I slip into unconsciousness. This is what I have, and for some reason, my brain always chooses to remind me of it all at quarter of four in the morning.