This has been true for quite some time but gone largely unnoticed. Floating through existence and not anywhere near real. A pathway of invisibility has opened, creating portals.
A friend called me on the telephone while I was driving yesterday to bond over a rock star’s suicide. I didn’t realize it until he called, but I was driving directly toward that friend’s house, so he invited me there. This happened because of choices made outside practical reality. A decision was made to keep moving randomly and drove me to a connective bond forged in a place where those energies chose to meet, because I am a ghost.
I don’t mean to imply that I’m dead. I’m just not living in the world I was originally born. It’s reasonable to assume that my physical body is still tangible, especially because it’s still the misshapen, self-abused shell I’ve tattered over the last thirty-nine years. But tangibility is withering, and existence is far more dreamlike and readily achievable.
A fiction is being lived: The fabrication that one can simply will a destiny and live it. This would not be possible for a mortal, therefore I must be an apparition. I have no money, nothing to trade save the magic incantations of poetry, fungal mass transporting untestable ideas. My composure and theories are those of an atheist, a fact-reliant citizen, but my actions are those of a conduit, a reed through which life may breathe legendary coincidences. I’m being exhaled in seasonal gusts. I’ve allowed circumstance to carry me, make me a phantom of light, waiting to be transported to the next impossible place where I’ll either solidify or spend a few moments as a wispy composition on the wind’s theremin. It’s likely I’ll see you soon. Let me know if I’m real.