Paul Got Blog'd

It has been almost over a year now since she had discovered the poltergeist’s presence in her home. By now, the haunting feelings have subsided. She’s grown used to the mail flying off of the dining table and finding her keys again in the usual hiding places. It too has grown fond of the home. Every subtle movement out of the corner of her eye is the spirit moving curtains or making the old wooden dresser groan and crack. After a year, she can seem to completely ignore its antics in an attempt to live a normal life.

It seeks her attention, that spirit, sometimes by flickering candle lights by the bath tub when she is trying to soak the week of work away. Gentle at first, the flames bend and sway rhythmically to a beat no one can hear. She breathes slowly, closing her eyes. All she hears is the faucet drip. The candles grow dim and then brighter, faster and faster. The flames seizure erratically on the wicks as the shadows cast against the walls dance violently — until the candles finally go out, only leaving a snaking trail of white smoke.

“Fucking STOP IT!” she screams with her fists clutching cold, damp hair.

The echo is followed by a sharp silence. The faucet drips. She breathes slowly and opens her eyes. The candles reignite, calm and still as the water where she sits.

There is this man who has the ability to see things that we can only perceive by imagination.  He sees the gifts left by muses.  Pains, joys, anger, thoughts provoked and thoughts repressed.  Vividly they reside in paintings and music as if they were strewn across the canvas and mixed in roughly with the oils or sewn into the lyrics and sheet music to carry the sound waves across the otherwise empty halls of which they call their resonant road.

He says, “To see and hear from the heart is to conjure empathy from one’s mind.”