There Is A Phantom
There is a phantom in my head.
It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Buried within latent joys and sorrows--things hidden under the careful wraps that make up the scattered folds in my mind. We all have folds--the creases and wrinkles, and the places where shadows linger and foment, and where light thrives so long as we nourish it with the proper intention.
My phantom is unlike yours.
Yours may be a secret--a special knowledge spoken only under the dimmest of candles, or between parallel hands against one’s ready ear; but my phantom is different. Though it is no secret, it can only be understood within the context of another who shares this phantom, and even then, the understanding between us two will likely be middling.
Do you know your phantom, Reader?
I address you plainly, now. You must have one--we all do. Do you know the folds of your mind which conceal venom transgressions, and do you know also, the edges of the folds which catch the light? Your phantom may migrate from fold to crease, from cavern to hilltop, but it is important you know it, and why it is there. Do you know your phantom?
Some have given their phantom a name. Some call it Jealousy, and they hide it behind the folds of a forced smile or well-chosen string of words. Some have christened it Anger. It’s only a secret so long as it is kept so; but in so doing, it festers--it twists in upon itself and only ever comes into the light of one’s mind when it is no longer concealed.
My phantom is not like these.
I did not choose the name of my phantom. Instead, it was bestowed by another--one who I had barely known. It was given to me in a dark place--a place full of rooms lined one after another, people moving in and out through the lingering smell of chemicals which were used to clean the traces of the phantoms of others who frequented this place. He walked into the room I sat in next to my mother, with a face not as solemn as it should have been. He carried with him a stack of papers upon a board, and after a careful scan of the papers, and a few well-placed questions to determine how ready I was to receive a name for the phantom, he spoke the name.
For the first time it was a declaration and not a speculation. It came suddenly and without attachment--he had known no such phantom like my own--but he spoke it nonetheless. Within a few heartbeat moments, my phantom had a name. It had a name, a record, and a plan going forward: “How were we to take care of this phantom? How were we to deal with its existence, so that you--the one who carries it, may have an existence, also?”
There is a phantom in my head.
It is kept within folds, beneath the lighted creases of my mind, and only shows itself from time to time. My phantom is always there, make no mistake. It burrows and hides under covers; so though it remains hidden, I may know myself well enough to know it is still there.
And then, once in a while, it makes itself known–it crawls out from the covers: the folds of my mind and reminds me, very keenly: “You are not alone here, in this light.” It speaks to me in muttered tones. It had stepped out from the folds where it was suppressed by the “plan going forward,” and dragged itself forward into the light where I walked. It is not welcome in this place.
There is a phantom in my head.