Retired escape artist. Temporarily mortal. Still under celestial observation.
I was fluent in self-destruction once—spoke it like a native, tongue sharpened on regret, grammar punctuated by vanishing acts. These days, I’m conversational in clarity, though I still trip on the dialect of peace. Some words blister going down.
This outpost “Ghostpoint” isn’t on any map worth trusting. It drifts somewhere between memory and myth, where the gravity’s emotional and the ghosts negotiate their hauntings. Mostly. They play cards on Wednesdays. I owe one of them a cigarette and an apology.
I’ve paced addiction’s corridor like a man trying to remember the punchline of a cosmic joke told in a collapsing room. The hallway flickered. I stayed too long. When I finally stumbled into daylight, I squinted like someone betrayed by softness. And maybe I was.
Now I write, not unravel. I archive instead of escape. Reflection is the new vice, and I hit it hard on bad days. Most days are bad. Some are sacred. I get confused.
Connection? It circles me like a celestial prank—close enough to shimmer, never close enough to hold. I reach anyway. Fingers out. Eyes open. Soul cracked like a cathedral ceiling that still lets the light in.
This isn’t a sermon. I don’t trust certainty. This is a flare from a soul that has absolutely no idea why it’s still here but suspects it’s for something hilariously important.
The gods? I’ve debated them in cold showers and airport terminals. Mostly, I think they ghost me. Or maybe I am the ghost. Either way, I’ve argued with divinity using sarcasm and cigarette ash and occasionally… reverence. No answer yet. Just static. And still, I listen.
I’m a damaged signal tower calling out into the darkness. Not for rescue. Not anymore. Just in case someone else is out there doing the same.
Read if you must. Just know—the voice stays helmeted. And the helmet has seen things.
This seat feels like the transmission is ongoing….
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