Now that my Chinese ghost has gone off to frolic with the
Saxon sprites in the eastern lands (those who’ve read Mists of Avalon will know what I mean) I’m being haunted by the
other one. The American one.
I see her wherever I go – in the middle of a field, half
hidden behind a tree in the wood, leaning against the wall of the pub at the
bottom of the lane. She looks as though she cried recently (though not over me,
it should be said.) She’s silent, but I can see her mouth move and I can read
her lips.
‘Don’t ignore me, Jeffrey,’ she mouths. ‘I won’t be ignored.’
No. She won’t be ignored.
I expect this is all in my imagination. I expect I’m falling
prey to false assumptions again, as is my wont.
And yet I’m not at all sure it is in my imagination. I’m
becoming increasingly disposed to suspect that some mysterious energy of
connection is at work. It’s that sort of energy people talk about – the sort to
which physical distance is irrelevant; the sort that flows of its own volition,
independent of original will or even cognisance.
Is it? I don’t know. All I know is, it’s tiring. I’m tired.
And I’m sneezing. I hate sneezing.
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