The Ghost

I have my routine. I love my routine.
Alarm goes off at six thirty, though I have nowhere to be. I don’t have to travel anywhere, and work from home, but it goes off nonetheless. One of my dogs goes outside first, and I make coffee. As, I look out the window, waiting for the water to fill, I wonder on what some people think of my life. Anti-Social. Recluse. I haven't left the house in days.

I let the other dog out and switch them around and think of JD Salinger. One of my author idols. I loved his works. He kept to himself. He wrote a few books, but was really known for the one. Then, the fame of the book drove him to keep to himself, wanting to remain apart from the world. He went out sometimes, but never left his town.

A ghost.

To them he was a ghost. To them, I’m a ghost. I see their point—ghosts have a routine that they stick to and they go through their path, replaying at life. But, how is my life more of a ghost than theirs? Is it because I stay in my home? They fail to realize they are their own idea of a ghost.

Ghosts of their own lives—working the nine to five, driving the forty minutes to get to their jobs. Playing at being human as they speak to others and discuss their happenings, but never really sharing themselves--only what they feel they are allowed to share.

They censor themselves. They don't need big brother.

I don’t feel like a ghost. Do they?