Our Gosths

"There are ghosts everywhere," Ser Jorah said softly. "We carry them with us wherever we go."

(George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire) 

We all live with our ghosts. Incorporeal figures, evanescent apparitions or such solid bodies that we need to hold them off. They reveal themselves in a staring in the space, in a shred of a memory, in the reminiscence of a feeling. They come back to us in a name we have misspoken, in a similarity, in the same habits or tastes between two completely different persons.

They jointed us over time, we have breathed them, we have eaten them, we have absorbed them through the skin's pores. We sweat them every night in sweet and sour dreams which veil our skin. Just to be shaken off whit the morsels of sleep which close our eyes at the awakening. They are pinned to us with the hooks of the good things we lived: sharp hooks piercing flesh and guts, painful hooks made with pleasant moments, shiny metal forged with joy and made black with regret. We can't remove them without tearing ourselves, we can't part from them because we don't want it. We can forsake the persons who once embodied them, but we can't forsake their ghosts. Because it would be to give up to a part of us, since we loved those persons, since we gave them a part of us or we let them take it, a part of us to take away. They were dear to us, it didn't matter if they deserved us or not, and their ghosts remind us of the love we felt.

The ghosts remind us how a beloved one was torn from us, they remind us the sufferance felt chasing away somebody we were loving but who was killing us a piece at time. Persons that are not with us any more, persons who we would still want to have next to us. The ghosts are our creations, created when we forced ourselves away from a person we still loved and who had loved us. A person still there, but not for us. A person who we shared a lot whit, to find out a day that something, no one knows what, didn't work, a small gearwheel which misfired the whole engine. It's a regret changed into a ghost, since flesh and bone are too hard to face. Both that it is the spectre of a pain or that it is the shade of a joy, it belongs to us. We are that ghost, the spectre balances that part of us we have been deprived of, that part of us  which was torn away from us, which was stolen with the lies, that part of us we gifted to somebody long time ago. 
But what such a dear price we pay for partially refill the void: just to remind is pain, actions done far away from us are able to hurt us, trifles can upset the new course of our lives, a place or a bed shared with the other one become taboos, the sufferance grips me looking at her eyes when the wrong name reaches my lips or I understand that I said it in the sleep.
Don't hate the other one's ghosts, don't hate your own ghosts. They are just dear companions who try to console us. Those ghosts are part of us, are part of her, are part of him. If you love the other one for what it is, isn't it for its ghosts as well? Wouldn't we be someone else without our ghosts? But that someone else would have surely its own ghosts from its past.