Ghostwriting & Marginalia.
Ghostwriter.
I haunt these words.
I hear their steps.
They pause...
But I remain static.
I haunt these words.
I am type-cast.
This cursor beating heart.
I hear them coming.
I feel them standing over me.
Ghostwriting.
I am this corpse.
I fear they think me dead, yet
I haunt these words.
Locked in, comatic,
Powerless to act, yet
I haunt these words.
They sharpen scalpels.
They take its organs.
They take its eyes.
They see nothing.
I am this ghostwriter.
Post scriptum
Post mortem.
Alive and Whole.
I haunt these words.
Marginalia.
"Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—
We murder to dissect."
William Wordsworth.
And we resurrect your words so that they can live again through us. Or we try. It is a confounding task to breathe again. Often we scream out like Viktor Frankenstein, "It's alive!" and we step back in horror at the thing we have resurrected from all the bits and bobs. Doesn't look like the original at all. Sigh. Forgive us, we know not what we do.
ReplyDeleteCursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery." (16.1)
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