Perhaps it was years later when I walked into my room to find my hair barrette missing, and nearly reported it stolen only to have it reappear a few days later in the bottom right hand corner of my dresser. More than once, even. Maybe it was when a friend told me that she saw her radio cord moving--all by itself. Perhaps it was when I first felt the eyes watching me. The eyes that belonged to someone who just wasn't there. I know, I called out, and no one answered me. I shrugged it off, then, though now I think perhaps I shouldn't have. Maybe it was when I "saw" one of them in my mind. A face with green eyes.
Perhaps it was when I wrote my first character, and heard them speak in my head, a misty goast of a voice that was incongruicely solid for all that. A voice with with intonation and personality, and it was saying things to me that I should put down on paper. Gosts that I give substance to, life to,. Ghosts that turn in to real living, perhaps even breathing, people as I write for them, pour more of my time, thought and energy into them. Gosts that have form, substance, sometimes even before one writes for them; ghosts that take on lives of their own and stand at your shoulder dictating all sorts of experiences to the "Instrument" that aallows them to ";play." so to speak. Gosts that put a hand-paw-tentical on the writer's head to keep them close. Ghosts that are either hyper, laied back or "on crack" as they prepell, compel, and otherwise torture their "instruments" to the point where they want to tear their hair out, or send said ghosts packing. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, thes particulay ones are stubborn enough, or ignorant enough, to shrugg of the frustration, and keep dictating. Until finally, *finally* the last word is out, then theyfall murcifully, blessidly silent. But then, ah yes then, it is the sadness; they are gone. Will the writer ever see them again- ever? Mayhaps. . .
Maybe it was when I first felt that feeling; that warning feeling of fear/you're not suppose to be here/Go back when I entered a certain set of tunnels of a place I called home for ten years. Perhaps it was when a friend and I went down a certain hallway of that place into a spot that was colder (despite the heaters) than the rest of the hall. By at least five or ten degrees even. Neither of us could ever tell whether it was drafty or just plain *cold.*
Perhaps it was when I almost physically felt a hande pat me on the back when I was alone and feeling lonely, and not particularly special and whispered words of "You *are* special, never stop believing you are." came into my mind. I was just a little freaked out by that, but as I grew older, I wasn't so much anymore. Somehow those experiences changed from freaky to normal for me, though when that was, I couldn't tell you either.
Maybe it was when I was sixteen, and my mind was opened to the wider world of the supernatural when I started to believe in the Phoenix and the myriad legends surrounding it. And realized that I believed in the phoenix for the phoenix itself, not merely the X-men animated series portrayal of the creature. I have now associated with said phoenix, sunbird and firebird legends and monichers for twelve long, enjoyable years. Hence my MSN and lj names reflecting the fact.
At first, as I mentioned above, it freaked me out. Weirded me out. I'd often forget by the time the barrette went missing again, and often thought it had been stolen, until it showed up again. I would often tense when I felt the eyes, only to relax again when the feeling left. But there was a time when that changed; where I relaxed when the eyes *came* and kept moving; a time when the presences no longer bothered me, and I chose to welcome them; to allow them in. A time when ghosts became part of my reality, and stayed a part of it. I wish I could say when that time was; but I cannot
All I can really say is that I have nearly always had a sense of the unseen, the mysterious, the esolteric. Even if I didn't know what it was at the time; even if I didn't realize it. I see them (in a way, since I'm totally blind) sense them, respect them. I do my best not to disturb them unless it is necessary; I do my best to keep the agreements, the words and promises, that I have made to them, lest I anger them. I do not wish to deal with an angry gost; the experiences I've heard about are proof enough to show me that it is not wise to anger them. Often I feel as if they respect me in turn; some of them who have almost no respect for others, have a sort of grudging respect for me. I know I can't be the only one they have that respect for; it just isn't possible, nor would it be practical.
I do know that I was a confirmed believer by the time I left high school So when the harmless prankster followed me home that year, it wasn't a surprise; when I asked where something was and my hand landed on it, it wasn't unusual for me to utter a mentle thanks and to let a brief smile cross my face. I felt honored that they would wish to "reach down" and aid me in that small way.
My reality still contains many things people think imaginary. My concepts of what is real and what is not real may well put some off. I am proud of my reality though; proud to say that I really, trouly, do believe in ghosts, spirits and other beings that cannot be seen with the eyes, but only with the mind and at times, the heart, and the other sense that many tend to disregard as nonsense. Disregard as many do psychics, mediums, and other "alternitive" ideas of living, being, and the practicing of one's spirituality. If it makes me weird, freaky or abnormal. . .
So be it. I stopped caring whether or not I was "normal" A long time ago. As a friend once stated, "Normal is a cycle on a washing machine." Who in all the worlds would want to be that? I certainly do not! :)
This was my entry for week six of therealljidol If you enjoyed it, please consider voting for me tomorrow. :)