A weird night

I have always been prone to daydreaming, but, as I grew older and became more mature, I understood that it is a bad habit which turns the attention away from the present moment, not allowing you to be happy, fulfilled, therefore I began to change my mindset, of course not succeeding often unless I put in a constant effort, yet forgetting to remain persistent. And so was I was bewildered when I saw the shadow of Dickens and I started to calm my self down, making exercises meant to clear the mind, feeling more and more uneasy and terrified that the transparent shape, instead of disappearing, kept staring at me in a way which you couldn’t call creepy if there wasn’t for the unusual, dreamlike circumstances, but rather melancholic and perhaps condescending.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked seated at the edge of my bed from where he made a slight move to come closer to me, but renouncing as soon as he noticed the fret in my wide-opened eyes. “You do not have a lot of guts, do you?” he inquired, the lilt of the voice scornful, mocking, but not in an exceeding fashion. Is this a friendly ghost, after all? If I am delusional, better be about something not scary, but charming and peaceful.

“But how do you think I should feel? You are dead, I am not used to such things,” I began the conversation, still not sure what to do exactly, but settling for a joking, ironical attitude, bearing in mind, not to go over the edge.

“Well, I guess you have a point here. My visit was unannounced, to say the least.”

“If you are really here, but not a product of my imagination.”

“Still not sure of my existence?”

“Can you blame me for that?”

“You are right,” he agreed with an intonation in which he made room for a nuance of benevolence, and I realised with a sense of strange relief that he was losing his menacing and transcendent traits. I guess I prefer to feel comfortable even with a thing of uncertain origin than to suffer. I cannot do anything to have it disappear, my attempts have failed, so it would be wiser to learn how to cope with the otherworldy presence, which, at that moment, decided to stand up from my bed and, with a gait which wanted to seem perfectly terrestrial, went slowly in a corner of the room, the dirtiest and darker place in my apartment, and put out two reefers, which I was using as a last resource in helping me to stop the inner dialogue.

“I think we should get to know each other more closely, and smoking should be the best way to do it. Don’t you agree?” he said and lit the cigarettes up, one of which he passed me nonchalantly, and I took it bedazzled. “Ghosts are able to intrude in your world and communicate with a person of their choosing if the said person has a predisposition which makes her extremely serene, relaxed. Smoking weed is yours.”

“I do not get high that often,” I tried to defend myself, not fully persuaded by the explanation, but willing to accept it in order to avoid to freak out.

“That’s not the point. The quality matters more than the quantity.”

“If you say so.” We smoked for a while and, abruptly, it did not seem so horrid, nor eccentric, to be there, but familiar and warm, as if returning home from a long journey.