The ghosts of the past come back every now and then,
To teach us something about ourselves.
To teach us that a moment can destroy us,
But a moment can also give rebirth to us.
We want to run and hide when suddenly faced with their horrible faceless faces.
Once upon a time, these ghosts had defined our identities and spelled out happiness for us.
But today they resemble the cavernous bottomless depths of a soulless black hole,
Ready to suck us in without a moment’s notice.
Ready to freeze and immobilise us in penetrative vulnerabilities.
The ghosts of the past look at us with a wry smile,
They know they have the last word on our interior soliloquies.
They know one soft but cold touch can make us crumble in pain and disintegrate.
We need to smile back at them.
We need to touch them without getting repulsed at their outwardly daunting appearances.
They are the bitter pills that we need to swallow every now and then,
To purify our present and future from self destructive hamartias.
The ghosts of the past are as illusory as grey wafts of trailing smoke on the faraway horizon.