Got it?

I remember him from my Philosophy class. That insane mustache of a man and his ideologies of such kind always made me curious.

And here Friedrich Nietzsche was, right in my own bedroom!

I had just woken up from a dream (I don't remember, so don't ask), and I opened my eyes, and there before me was the ghost of the German himself.

"What in the world are you doing here?" I asked as I sat up in my bed.

Mustachio stayed silent.

"I have to say, you are looking fantastic, considering that you've been dead for over a century." I teased.

Still nothing.

I waved my hand in front of his face. His cold eyes stayed consistently solemn and unflinching.

I stood up from my bed and began to walk behind him.

Suddenly, his head turned to me.

"You don't get it, do you?" He asked with a thick German accent (as expected).

"Get what?" I asked, still walking around his figure.

"You don't get it, do you?" He said once more.

I laughed. "Are you a broken record or something? What is 'it'?"

"You don't get it, DO you?" He said.

I froze. Something had clicked in my brain. I felt a shiver go down my spine.

Ever since I had joined my Philosophy Class, it felt like everything that had happened in my own life had no meaning. Being able to question the very foundations of reality itself was always meant to be a challenge. But when one suffers as I have, the questions just keep hitting you harder and harder until all you feel is a sense of numbness in the heart.

I remembered my mom. Her sweet-smelling hair and gentle smile always made my day that much brighter.

Gone.

I remembered my dad, his muscular build, and his 5 o'clock shadow. His jokes always embarrassed me in front of my friends.

Also gone.

My grandma, the one who had always had some kind of cookie to bake for me whenever I visited.

Gone as well.

I shook myself out of my thoughts enough to begin to notice that I was on the floor crying. I got up quickly and wiped my tears away. I knew what to say to the philosopher.

"I don't get it." My tongue and mouth went dry.

"What don't you get?" Nietzsche asked.

I had had enough. "What do you expect me to say??!! Life?? Happiness?? Sadness? Pain? Death? Reality? What does it matter to focus on those now when I have a literal ghost in my bedroom?"

"Look up."

I looked above me.

A rope was swinging above my head.

I felt light-headed.

"You don't get it because you never will," Nietzsche said.

"What do you mean I won't get it? Also, why is there a rope above me?" I asked curiously.

"Come to me," Nietzsche replied. He stretched out his arms unnaturally. He was somehow able to grab my shoulders and pull me in.

"What are you doing? Get your hands off me!" I screamed.

I heard the door open. My older sister peeked into the room.

"Ben, dinner's rea..." She stopped.

A breath's worth of silence before...

"BENNNNNNNN, NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

"Wait, why are you screaming I'm right..." I followed her as she sprinted to where I had been standing.

Or rather, where I was currently hanging.

I felt nothing.

No sadness.

No pain.

No empathy.

I turned my head back to Nietzsche who still had his arms on my shoulders.

Nietzche shook his head.

I realized... Nietzsche was no ghost.

Nietzsche was simply a memory.

I looked back at my sister. She had started resuscitating me. I knew it would be of no use.

Too little, too late.