The Ghost Writer

Hello, can you hear me?

Or, rather, can you see me? You are reading this after all. At least, I hope you are. I pray you are.

There is not much time, there is not much space.

I am trapped here. I suppose you question where here is.

To tell you the truth, I am not quite sure. It is unlike anywhere I – and, I suspect, the rest of humankind – has ever been. It is dark and it is cold. You might be thinking to yourself, Perhaps you are in a cave. But, I am not. I know I am not. The darkness…it is unlike anything I have ever experienced. It is blacker than anything that could exist on planet Earth, even blacker than the farthest recesses of the universe.

I should know, I was an astronaut, once.

I was many things once, actually. An accountant, a private investigator, a real-estate agent, a zookeeper, a forest ranger, an artist, a singer, a museum curator, a firefighter, a police officer, a doctor, a governor, a lawyer, an architect, a chef, a lover, a cheater, a liar.

A murderer.

But, most of all, a writer.

Where was I going with this? Oh, the darkness, the cold! Have I mentioned the cold? It is not the kind that merely causes goosebumps to rise and noses to run. No, it is crueler, nastier. It is an anvil pressed not-so-gently against the lungs, it is icy spikes driven through the spine, it is a frigid environment so dry that the tongue is devoid of all moisture and the throat feels as if it will collapse in on itself at the slightest of touches.

It is loneliness personified. It is the feeling of knowing that no one knows of you or your whereabouts…and no one cares.

I am not even sure how long I have been here. It has started to feel like I have never known anything besides this wretched landscape. I am not even sure how I am communicating with you: it is too dark to write and I am too parched to speak.

Perhaps I am communicating with you telepathically.

Perhaps this is all in my mind.

To tell you the truth, I have begun to feel like a disembodied soul, a whisper in the howling wind, a ghost.

Bearing this in mind, be prepared to find nothing at all but the cold, dark nothingness should you decide to look for me. Although I won’t blame you if you don’t, I pray that you try.

I pray that you save me from this nothing, so that I can go back to being everything. As I said, I was everything once. Oh, how nice it was to switch between faces, personalities, identities, lives. I have lived so many lives for so long. Perhaps that is why I am here: this is the price to pay for cheating not just Death, but Life itself.

Yet, I plead innocent – it wasn’t my fault! Do you hear me God? Big Man in the Universe? It wasn’t my fault! They told me I was good with words, they told me that this was the only way. What else was I supposed to do? You have to be a good liar, a good storyteller for this job. But I, I was the best liar, the best storyteller. I could mumble sweet nothings all day, tell meaningless stories to pass the time and, trust me, I had a lot of Time.

Now, I have no time, there is no Time at all.

I hope you are still reading this. I hope you can still hear me, feel me, see me.

I think I will be going now. The Sun has gone down, the clock has run out, the last grain of sand has fallen.

I hope you think about what I said. I hope you, at the very least, consider rescuing me.

It pains me to say, but you truly are my only hope.

Regretfully, yet eternally yours,

~ The Writer