Some ghosts do not rattle chains; they revise thoughts in whispers.
A ghost holds me captive in conversations! It has no shape, scarcely any objective sentences in our discussion, yet its voice glides through my mind, clear as glass, firm as facts. It never speaks aloud, sometimes only a residue of faint echo, yet the consequence presses upon. Our exchanges are fraught, each one sapping me until weariness seeps into the marrow of my will. Every dialogue sets my skin aflame with anguish. Anxiety unmoors me, and I chase the horizon as though I could outrun my shadow, flee the dusk, and burn in the mercy of the sun —but it clings to me, unrelenting.
To discover a remedy in all my searches, even for a temporary period, the trail dissolves without any traces of who or what my opponent is. The phantom lingers in the deepest folds of my mind, whispering prophecies of the end of the world, as if warning already etched in ash. I have tried to silence whispers; each attempt falls floppy as prayer on deaf wind. Perhaps we have a decree to carry our ghouls as burdens, invisible yet inseparable. Should we not, then, learn the art of coexistence? But no—we hide, polishing our disguises, rehearsing denial. How long can we sustain this silent spectacle? Have we fallen in love with a lifetime-long charade?
The soul bears refuge in soliloquies—to stay grounded, to heal. Progress or not, the days still dissolve; the seasons trade their colors; and life knots itself in doubt. Which path leads forward? What is worth keeping? When is the time to let go? When does one say no—and when is it time to yield to yes? Hope and experience ricochet endlessly, bruising one another. To be alive feels like a silent, fatal diagnosis!
Self-reflection, therapy, self-reasoning, praying for the extraordinary, and hoping for a miracle become the only straws to afloat. Some find respite at the tail of the rainbow, but the notion of a ‘Kathikon‘ eludes even the ardent faithful.
Restless life becomes the norm, while peace evaporates in the false urgency of days that teeter between hope and descent. Time gathers speed, and breath carries us quietly, almost without warning, closer to the end. The battle for a concession rages in every cell, yet no victory surfaces for the self or its shadow. For ages, saints, sages, preachers, and hermits have searched ancient scrolls for relief from the conflict between the tangible self and its expression in the world. Some urge to offer alms at the altar, though the measure is unknown; others insist that wisdom—our inner North Star—points the way. All compromise, however fervently sought, fades like incense into the air while each breath, each shared look, each fragile smile could be the last note of our story, or the first line of another beginning as we move through our days.
Have we not already given up all our precious ‘Al‑Girbah’ in offering? Have we not lifted our faces to the constellations, seeking counsel in their shine? Perhaps to live is to carry the silent, fatal truth—that we know the destination, yet wander still, unable to accept, to make peace with the ending.
Making of:
Long, incantatory sentences reflect the exhausting, spiraling quality of that inner dialogue, while religious and mystical references hint at how old and universal this struggle between the self and its shadow has always been.
This piece began as an attempt to give shape to the feeling that anxiety can argue more persuasively than any real person in the room—a ghost whose only medium is thought. Original title of this piece was: Imbroglio!
The recurring images of conversations, prophecies, altars, and constellations all circle one question: how do we live with an inner voice that foretells endings while life still insists on beginning again each day.