There is a ghost in the room… wherever I go. It is me. The ghost of who I was… of who I was on the inside, haunts me every day. I died decades ago. I disappeared under a cloud of misunderstanding, and mistrust.

When I talk with anyone, my ghost is in the room. Do I listen to my “reality” voice, or my ghost?

People don’t even know who I am. People I worked with for 15 years know virtually nothing about me. Or I should say… about my ghost. People are afraid of ghosts. They are afraid of me. I am two people. Or was… the real me is now limited to this office, and my writings. They prefer the public me. Even with its faults.

But the ghost haunts me… I can not be the public-me so much anymore. The energy to do that has long since faded. And when I have to be the public-me, the ghost pulls at my mind…

There is a ghost with me always.