31/10/2025
| ๐ง๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ฆ๐ง๐ฆ ๐ง๐๐๐ง ๐ฆ๐ง๐๐ฌ
There are things that never leave,
even after the story ends.
They stay, quietly,
between morning and forgetting
shadows that know how to wait,
memories that never found a grave
They come at night,
when even the stars have turned their backs.
They sit beside my books,
touch the corners of my fading notes,
and watch me wrestle with the weight
of wanting to be enough.
The ghost of the past wears my old uniform,
creases of regret folded neatly in its sleeves.
It lingers by the doorway of memory,
where the echo of my younger self
still calls out promises it couldnโt keep.
It reminds me of the words I swallowed,
the opportunities I let die in silence.
I tell it to leave,
but it only smiles
because it knows I keep the door open
every time I look back.
The ghost of love comes gently.
It smells like rain and unfinished sentences,
like the warmth of someone who once stayed.
It lies beside me when the world grows cold,
its breath tracing the shape of a name
I no longer say aloud.
It does not frighten me;
it aches.
It hums the songs we never finished,
and in that melody,
I realize how grief
is just love left without a home.
The ghost of acads walks with tired feet.
It holds a cup of cheap coffee,
and its eyes are the color of sleepless dawns.
It whispers, โYou must keep going,โ
even when my knees tremble
under the weight of expectation.
It is the ghost that keeps me alive
the one that tells me hunger is temporary,
that brilliance is born from persistence,
even when the world forgets to notice.
The ghost of responsibility haunts every hallway.
It carries deadlines on its back,
its hands stained with ink and exhaustion.
It smells of tarpaulins and burnt-out lights,
of laughter that hides fatigue.
Sometimes I wish it would rest,
but it never does.
It believes service is sacred,
and I
I keep believing it too,
even when my soul begs for silence.
And then, the ghost of my own heart.
The quietest of them all.
It does not speak,
but I feel its weight on my chest.
It visits when I am alone,
when I scroll past the versions of myself
I no longer recognize.
It carries all my unspoken fears,
all the tears that never fell
because I had to smile for the world.
It is the heaviest ghost
the one I can never exorcise.
And yet, on this All Soulsโ Day,
I do not burn incense to drive them away.
I light candles so they can see their way home.
For these ghosts are not my enemies
they are fragments of me.
They are the pulse behind every essay,
the warmth behind every act of service,
the sorrow behind every smile.
They are proof that I have lived
that I have loved deeply,
failed honestly,
and endured quietly.
So when they visit tonight,
I will not hide beneath my sheets.
I will let them sit beside me,
drink from my trembling hands,
and tell their stories once more.
Because the truth is
I am made of ghosts,
and in their haunting,
I remain human.
May all that once haunted me
find peace in my remembering,
and may I,
finally,
find peace
in staying alive.
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