love, read, write

My working theory is that it was the mirror that made me into a ghost. Emphasis on the "working" – I'm still undecided whether I would describe my state of being as ghosthood, and also on how the mirror did the ghost thing. 

In the spirit of science, I have a couple of test scenarios that I believe would help me figure out what happened.

The first test involves just standing in front of the mirror at various angles. You would start with standing right in front of it, then slowly rotate around it. Five minute periods. One of them should be from a far distance, about twenty feet or so. It's most ideal if you haven't washed your hair in over 48 hours.

Another requires a hot shower and the bathroom mirror. You'd have to shower for at least thirty minutes, maximum heat (to tolerance). Optimally, the forty minute mark is when it enters existential territory. And then: the unveiling of the curtain into a rush of cold air, your euphemized reflection mirroring your vulnerable figure, reaching for the towel placed just a couple inches out of reach, remembering something suddenly, having the urge to scream the thought away, et cetera. 

And then my last one is a bit more involved but potentially easier to execute, depending– you have to look into the mirror, at yourself. Just, emptily. In a tired way (the Tuesday kind of tired).

An unidentifiable feeling washes over you, because strangely, you recognize yourself. 

Which should be a given, but here you are, experiencing this new thing: 

             you recognize that body in the mirror as yours.

Five to ten minutes. 

And then you go to the grocery store.

Anyways. People think that turning into a ghost is more physical, bodily. To do with heart function and other related organs. The physical death, the disintegration. Rigor mortis. But for me, death wasn't involved (as far as I know). In fact, it was so subtle that I don't think I realized for at least a couple hours. I was in the grocery story by then.

There was one russet potato left. I needed two. This one was, most certainly, sprouting. There was a little bit of a staring contest before I thought of a different menu for dinner. Pasta, I supposed. So I walked to the grains, the still-empty shopping basket hanging boredly at the crook of my elbow. My phone rang.

"Incoming Call: Dad"

A terribly resized photo of him and mom, smiling. I didn't even remember where I'd gotten that picture, let alone how it had set itself as my dad's contact photo. Nevertheless, I gave it a half-hearted swipe and received the unwelcome call.

"What's wrong?" Maybe a bit too loudly.

He didn't answer for a few seconds. I would guess, maybe, that this was around the time I started to immaterialize. It was the first time I was speaking to him in months. I was imagining the worst. The tiny creature at the bottom of my stomach began to move. I could feel my knees, the knees within the knees – the joints, the ligament, the little cells within. My fingers were slipping through the phone. I was pressing my palm against my cheek, holding his faint breathing to my ear by desperate, last-resort pressure, completely unaware of my disintegration. I was waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

"What's wrong?" I repeated. I could not hide the aggression in my voice.

There were a million ways this conversation could have continued. A million ways I could have repeated myself. Instead, I'd said the same two words, hatefully (what's. wrong.), to which he asked, after a graceless beat, "Do you put onion in kimchi jjigae?"

In my mind, this is the point at which the indecisive fate of my life committed itself to my ghostdom. I'm sure if things had turned out differently, I would have somehow physically rematerialized into the store and continued with my search for ingredients. But it hadn't, and so some sort of fault – the one between my father's omission and my aggression – had written for me a little improbable situation that became truth.

Come to think of it, I'm sure there are tests I can make around this, too. An optimal emotional boiling point. Stay at a simmer for 5-10 minutes, add salt, and watch the proteins denature. Watch your phone drop to the ground, the basket a quick follow. Observe for three minutes, listen for audiovisual stimuli. Learn for the first time what it feels like to have limbs but not feel them. Stare at the "ongoing call" screen, a photo of your parents 30 years ago, cluelessly representing the silence. Watch your father hang up, leaving you on the ground, haunted. Haunting.

(WIP)