Some days unfold seamlessly–the hours slipping by, flowing from one moment into another and requiring no effort or vigilance. They just are, and in them, so are you.
Some days feel impossible and endless–the minutes dragging, the effort just to keep putting one foot in front of another feeling herculean. They feel like slow strangulation, every instant a choice between fighting for breath or succumbing.
Somewhere inbetween are the ghost days.
Ghost days are crowded. Ghost days are complicated by memories made sentient. Ghost days are colored with regret, laden with doubt.
Ghost days can’t be seen from the outside. You do whatever needs to be done. You are polite, you smile when appropriate, you are pleasant and forgettable. Chores get done, errands get run.
Ghost days trespass on the inside. It’s like being trapped in a subway car with every mistake you ever made. The noise is constant and unnerving. Movement is impossible, so you just stand still. Of course, the train is speeding along, regardless.
Ghost days settle grief around your shoulders in an invisible cloak. It’s not restrictive enough to stop you, just enough to make itself omnipresent. Just enough to leave you wondering when you’ll feel normal again.
Ghost days are lonelier than just plain being alone. Because you’re not alone. But you may as well be.