A torrential week of bodies. Age bringing decay, with our bones and meat eating themselves from within, as our minds move to the other side of paradise. Sometimes, a small sound leaves a long mark, bringing back memories of old houses, corner shops, and a life seemingly lived.
And so I wonder: How do you kill a ghost?
Though they hover in dreams and nightmares, they mostly exist in our days as we say hello to a friend, have lunch with a colleague, or find ourselves at a bar sitting next to a stranger who may soon become a friend. A ghost is a past we lament, perhaps even regret. A ghost is a brother or a sister whom we never got to see grow up. A ghost is a future they built that only exists in our imagination, and that wonderment of possibilities is what haunts us as we walk the streets.
The weeks after, we build a life. For some, with a partner. For others, in solitude. In both scenarios, the world collapses in time to make sure there are no gaps in our hearts, though the flesh stays itching.
The ghost hovers yet—can it be killed?
There is a story once heard among the men of old who found a way. It required a kind of violence that broke the spirit, but such was the price some were willing to pay. Because after all, a ghost left unattended, allowed to grow and invade space, may have had much worse consequences.
But now, at this moment, when our overlords Space and Time have found appropriate foes in Psychedelics and Artificial Intelligence that challenge their supremacy, we cannot accept such a Pyrrhic victory. The fiction that we believed to be true can now be destroyed by science, and so we must believe it can kill a ghost too.
I must ask then, can a ghost live in the machine?
I wrinkle, my joints ache, and soon I will lose my vision—but fear not, what worried us in yesteryear no longer troubles the mind. Whether our flesh is spliced and rebuilt and made new once again, or our lives multiplied by experiences never lived, solutions are on the way.
So, I bought a ticket out of Synecdoche, and I care not where I’m going. The ghost no longer hovers over me, nor does it present itself in the ether, longing for a life unlived. The seat next to me remains empty.
Paces away, there is a small sound: the meow of a cat turning away. It alerts me to the stream of tinny blood running out of my nose—so I collect myself and walk over to the mirror.
It stares back as if it had been waiting for me for ages, and says, “Hey, it’s you. Been wondering where you’ve been. Heck of a battle, yeah? Let’s get you back home now.”
Ah, of course. That’s the trick—
You can never kill what is you.