The angry fair better than all the others. The weak and frightened cling to me which is a mistake but I’m too busy to worry about a person’s mistakes.   To see the soft weeping, the gratitude for my time while listening and understanding is sometimes comical, most of the time annoying; yes I have a schedule to keep.  People, except the angry, don’t see it coming, the price they pay for believing without faith but with naivete. It is their self-absorption I need which keeps me craving the terror that at the end I see in all.

I regret none of my interactions with those of whom I have shared the gloom of tombs, dark empty spaces, sounds of voices from beyond the grave and the sudden awareness of being two in the room. Ghosts are subtle, and after years of exposing their secret places, I must conclude they are nothing to encourage, nothing to hope for and nothing for the living to live pursuing.  The living don’t listen. I keep all that good advice to myself.

I see the young writers making heroes of those that exist beyond the grave. The more modern and exalted flimflam showmen flutter to the call that the dead have some vague romantic goal to reunite with the ones they love. The dead are just that, and if there is any ambition in them, it is to have more join in the aching spiritual icebox they inhabit.  But far be it from me to stop the processing of bait that so lure the young to their living, haunting, fate.

So, there we have the dead but it is the living that is the greatest heartache of all (not to me, mind you). They become involved in seeking their fairytale within the realms of the supernatural; especially those who crave touch most of all.  Ironic. I’ve seen them find it and it’s a revelation, let me tell you.

I met a young man once, his eyes a deep, dark, blue, I’ll never forget the depth of emotion those orbs conveyed.  He became angry with me at the end of his story. He was the hero, the gallant who would save his beloved from the shadowland of death; she dogs him to this day.  The white face, the terror of expression, not full on but out of the corner of his eye and when he least expects it.  Imagine that life.

Too there was the young girl with deep black eyes who thinks to this day that I bewitched her.  She was a thrill seeker and thought the power of hidden knowledge was a boon to her existence.  She lives in an asylum now.

But the interesting ones are the angry ones.  Those who come to me with questions of the supernatural; the reluctant students who seek me out rather than a good priest.  They can’t explain floating lights, slamming doors and cold spots so they want me to give them some reassurance (or peace which is comical).

It’s obvious to me that those who crave the unknown to quash the loneliness of existence live shallow little lives and those who have seen something they cannot explain (the angry) wish for memories of the urbane but one-dimensional type to reclaim their lonely little lives. Such quests never end well. Reversals. Pictures that fly not drop from the walls. Sudden fear. Sleeplessness. Tears. Some will escape, others, who confide in me, don’t.

I draw large crowds, you know, of all sorts. I am not bragging, just well known, in a secret whispered sort of way. I am surrounded by actors and directors and glamorous dancers of every type. Inevitably someone will ask me if I believe in ghosts.   I’m comforted by the beautiful crowd’s reaction because it is the same as those within the supermarket or the brown shoe beauties I meet in some obscure bookstore. Their eyes become large and luminous but after the hubbub of my first ‘yes,’ I follow those who walk away angry.

The angry, are the failures who overstep a living person’s boundary. The Byronic hero who insist in making the good in life evil and hang on to the concept of thinking evil is good. The practice is philosophical in the 21st century and wonderfully hypocritical as well.

Ah the joy of crying foul when told no and crying foul when you’re miserable after grabbing whatever it is in life that begs satisfaction.  Those types are always angry, yet they struggle less when my eyes turn red and explain that justice has nothing to do with me.  Yes, the angry fall easily at my feet determined to see the best in me.  The best in me is deception, but the angry always hope for pity.  It’s evil, I know.