Ghost Music

We pour a bit of ourselves into everything we do, every note we play and, unwittingly, one fragment at a time, we leave ourselves in the past.

Empathy is a liar. It seduces us with the impression of selflessness, yet whatever feelings we think we can fathom are confined by the extent of our own hearts. We are living on our own, in our separate bodies.

Loss came in all shapes and forms, but it hadn't occurred to me until now that you could lose the things you never had.

We weren't made with endless time between our fingers like noodles we can stretch as much as we see fit. Even the most resilient noodles break at some point. It is the most ordinary and the most profound thing in the world.

We are all like trees, our heads swaying in the wind, our roots buried in the ground, unseen by anyone and at times forgotten even by ourselves.

What brought me a touch of comfort was knowing not that my husband was there, asleep on the other side of the wall, but that there was a stranger, across the street, still awake and listening to the same rain.

Were there people who could say with unwavering certainty that they liked what they lived for -- even on days when they wanted to destroy all of it -- if such people existed, then I wouldn't hesitate to throw myself away and become one of them.

I wished there was a way for him to understand that he was more than just a shadow that emerged and faded with the light, and if he denied his existence, then he'd also be rejecting the part of me that had become so deeply entwined with him. And I couldn't allow him to reduce that part of me to nothing but a fantasy.

Our fates have been melded together in a way that can never be undone. Like a game of tug of war, I'm afraid that I'm pulling you into my world, and I'm being drawn into yours. Soon we will both fall somewhere in the middle and lose touch as to what it is we're searching for.

He had given me something, but took it away before my hands could warm it up. I couldn’t even identify what it was I no longer had.

Though the walls were glowing orange, the place still felt pitch-black. It shone in a way that didn’t cast light on anything but itself, which reminded me of photos I’d seen of coral during the night. The texture of the walls felt the same as the mushroom ghost, as though I had been eaten up by a giant balloon. I imagined the house sucking up all the air, suffocating me. After I died, it’d absorb me too.

The way I see it,' she said, 'he can't expect anyone to understand his pain just by knowing what he's been through. Nobody knows how another person handles pain. That's why we move our lips and tell each other how we feel. If he's pretended all his life that he's come out of the past unscathed, then he can't blame his mother for believing in a strength he's only pretended to have.

That day will come years later, during a stifling summer, when he will find himself back at this courtyard letting out a loud, frenzied cry over what he has learned today, as though he is learning it for the first time.

What did I believe? There must have been a point in my life when I started doubting, and ever since then, truths have existed on a spectrum, and things I thought were true are perhaps merely beliefs, neither true nor untrue. Do we even need the truth if we have beliefs? Or, rather, do we want the truth? Isn't it the case that despair is often the result of running out of things to believe in, even though truths have always been plentiful? But when has knowing that those truths exist ever given us a sense of peace?

But even a dream would become real if you come back to it often enough.

Turns out it’s possible to be deeply in love with a person you don’t know, ’ she said. ‘When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self and always ends by deceiving others. Oscar Wilde wrote that.

recognised something in her; something that crippled me, too, on days when the sky was cloudy and the air was heavy. It was the weary look of a woman beyond heartbreak, where pain didn’t sting any longer but rather pulled her down with an authority and inescapability akin to gravity.

They were kites tied to this world by a string. Now that the string was cut, I prayed that they’d be free, wherever they were.

another person who was awake in the darkest hours. I didn’t know who it was, of course, and that didn’t matter anyway. What brought me a touch of comfort was knowing not that my husband was there, asleep on the other side of the wall, but that there was a stranger, across the street, still awake and listening to the same rain.

There was something alluring about an aging woman’s hands, I thought, weary but resilient, weathered by the experiences of her years, by everything she had touched. They were a book without words.

Soon I will completely forget what I’ve been searching for, ’ he said. ‘When that happens, I fear that the little part of me that’s still left will not exist any more.

Haven’t you considered that maybe the things you’ve been searching for are not lost, but that they have evolved into something else?

It felt as though the piano was what gave him form, and without it, he would become a thought, a concept, a blank space.

Do we even need the truth if we have beliefs? Or, rather, do we want the truth? Isn’t it the case that despair is often the result of running out of things to believe in, even though truths have always been plentiful? But when has knowing that those truths exist ever given us a sense of peace?

In the beginning, it came like the first droplets of rain. Then it turned into a steady stream. The melody was somewhat recognisable, but I couldn’t come up with the name of the piece. Moments later, I realised it wasn’t the melody I knew. It was the sound, the way each note was like a silent scream, grabbing on to another in a desperate attempt for cohesion.

As an adult, fears and weaknesses have consequences if you don't deal with them properly.

When I woke, the room was so black that I had to blink a few times to make sure my eyelids were really open. He doesn’t tell anyone about what happened