The afterlife, if you want to call it that, hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be. I didn’t plan ahead for all of this.
I never was good at thinking things all the way through. I’ve always leapt before I looked, and every time, the landing has been rather abrupt.
As a kid, when things would go wrong, as they often did, my father would tell me,
“Son, you have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again.”
Somehow, as I watched him cry a gentle tear, silent and masculine, though a tear nonetheless, as he stood at my empty casket, I doubt this is what he meant.
I’ve been consistently good at falling down, and even as a child it effected me. Made me want to just stay down—give up, give in.
But somehow, I always get back up.
You have to rise up to fall back down again.
I didn’t set out to be a ghost story. Quite the contrary, I set out to be a new and improved model. Not a better version of myself, a better version of a human being—one that actually cares.
But when you leave your path up to fate—when a thumb in the air can decide your future, rules and goals go out the window and you have to sit back and try to enjoy the ride, regardless of where you are taken.
When you finally live up to your words—all those words, building a lifelong lamentation on brittle paper—all you can do is what any ghost does; float.
I’m probably confusing the issue here. You’re probably wondering, how can a dead man ramble on? I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself, or perhaps behind.
It really is amazing to think, though, how true it is: You really can’t go home.
There are no do-overs in life, no matter how hard you try.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning.