The Phantoms

1. Introduction
2. A puzzling questions regarding phantoms
3. Painful truth about our existence
4. Confrontation with dilemma situation
5. How should the enigmatic thoughts be erased?

I’ve always been on the fringe of the social circle. Much like a donut, the core of my peers seems a hollow, meaningless thing granted both a name and recognition. I prefer the tangible—I always have. I see people, as little more than bleating phantoms. I hear them; I feel them; I’m never quite sure I see them. Oh, I see their amour, and their callous hides of lipstick and eye shadow—but I can’t think of a single person I’ve ever truly laid eyes on. My sense of life is that Iam my own truth, my own soul—for how can I be influenced by someone that doesn’t truly exist? Am I the sole individual amidst a populace of bodies? It cannot be so, yet “I think, therefore I am,” and I often feel as though Iam the only one who truly does think.

The truth is glaringly painful when one pulls the wool from over his eyes: people are forever seeking enlightenment. The irony is that most can’t handle the light they so vehemently seek. Instead of piercing the thick veil of shadows that is their existence, they blind themselves –desperate humans unwittingly emulating a modern day Oedipus. Darkness is something of an anesthetic. The blush on one’s cheeks and the clothes on one’s body mean so very little when no one can see her, and even less when she can’t see herself. I’m crushed with the ability to see the shadows people don like worn out overcoats they can’t bear to throw away, but unable to do anything about it. I’ve cast off my clinging shadow, or perhaps I’ve merely strengthened it to a point where I merely think I’ve conquered it. Nevertheless, I stand staunchly by the former idea; I believe my intelligence and spirituality to be richer since my revelation. That notwithstanding, to view these shades without colour is a truly painful experience.

I often myself whether I’d be better off without the stigma of this quasi-enlightenment upon my soul. Shall I be denied my shadowy delights simply because I’ve caught a glimpse of the light? It burns, it sears, and every waking hour is spent, in part, on pondering this double-edged truth which I both desire and despise. Still, I cannot truly abhor it. I can only thank whatever allowed me a glimpse beyond the blinders my peers seem to covet. This alleys side street, and the tantalizing delights that glance away from the beaten path offer go unheeded by the great mass of men. I would prefer my ideals decreed sickly and shot as a once proud horse might be, than to wallow in my own numinous filth. To submit is to accept something other than who I am the alternative lifestyle being countless years of trudging down a road until the end of my days, growing petulant and weary, and never to seeing the forest for the trees, much less the forest itself.

It’s ironic how this enlightenment inevitably leads to more enigmas. I now see beyond the singular, and comprehend the reason as opposed to the action. How is it, them, my understanding of human nature varies inversely to the number of questions I have about it? I wonder, for every tear I see of the girl who’d hoped to get that “A” and for every first thrown over the empty disputes that abound all about me, what drives these hollow men and women to act as they do? I questions the sort of shadowy poppet strings these people affix to their limbs—these blind ghosts that cry over a red pen and batter each other over nothing at all. Is this truly what we are steely shells, tempered with blazing ignorance, and saturated by nothing but good intentions? In this regard, my thoughts help keep me one step ahead of society, and allow me the sense to avoid its trappings. I will not shed tears over something I attempted wholeheartedly; I will not strike a person if words can accomplish the same end. This is the gift I have been given, and to close my eye against the glaring sun would be nothing less than ignorant.

I’m undecided whether the shadows of my mind have been cleared, or whether I’m merely a blinded dupe who believes herself to be the only substantial figure amidst a sea of specters. I cannot determine this, and I likely never will—still, the very idea that I understand that I may be blinded sets me further apart from others than anything else I can fathom. Have I found that uncut diamond—that raw mass of knowledge that will somebody gleam as a precious stone? Or, have I found a deceptive piece of glass that will shatter when I attempt to refine it?