Our indifferent existence lay between life and afterlife. Our purpose was unknown to us and might be an essential part of the intricate cosmic plan, but we did not really care. What we knew, however, was that we were pulled out of our ethereal corpses by some inexplicable force for some inexplicable reason and were let to trickle slowly into the bastion of the living. And then, after intangible droplets of ourselves meticulously formed themselves into a whole, we moved. For a time, we moved. For how long, we did not know. But we knew that our existence was as temporary as our mortal selves and that we would, sometime, disappear.
I would have apologized for not properly introducing myself, but I just can not. I forgot my name, along with the other pieces of my identity and memory, a long time ago. I can, however, remember this story when I was a ghost:
I was a phenomenon of blankness – an occurrence, not a creature. I passed through walls without collision. I could not walk, but I could float. I was often invisible. Many ghosts actually liked being visible to frighten humans away, but I did not. I liked being with people, not because I missed being one of them, but because I was alone most of the time. Some ghosts had friends – well, not really friends, but acquaintances at the very most – but I did not have anyone to be with. I was not lonely though. Loneliness was as bearable as the loss of life. But if there was anything unbearable during my life as a ghost, it was the inability to feel, to have emotions. We were indifferent, apathetic, stoic. If there was any mortal pleasure I missed, it was the ability to feel. Not sex. Not the sensation of smoking.
I used to live in an abandoned condominium. I did not know why, but for some reason I felt at home there. I spent most of the daylight in my condominium and spent most of my night in the busy streets of Makati. I used to visit restaurants and malls and listened to humans talk. Humans talked so fast, which is why I could not understand most of their conversations. Perhaps it was because I was illiterate when I was alive or maybe because my speech and mental skills had deteriorated along with my memory. I did not really know. But, still, I liked being with humans. Being with humans was the only proof I had that, somehow, I coexisted with them. It was a ghostly pleasure to realize that one actually coexisted with another. And I realized that the most when I met Sandra.
One night, as I was floating along Urdaneta, I saw a ghost being barked at by a dog. I examined the ghost very carefully, wondering about its gender. Well, having a penis or a vagina never really mattered to ghosts. The sex organ was as useless to us as our feet. But, nevertheless, I discovered that the ghost was a she. She had long hair and a peculiar smile. And she had an unusual glow.
I floated towards her and made myself visible. And then, when I was near enough, I yelled at the barking dog. The dog shuddered and left, crying. The ghost smiled at me, and for that moment, I almost felt something. I smiled back. “Thank… you,” she said very slowly. Speaking was difficult for ghosts.
“You’re… welcome,” I whispered. And then the conversation became very awkward. I did not know what to say. I wondered what her name was as a living human and, somehow, an inner voice told me it was Sandra. I stared at her. Yes, she was, unmistakably, a Sandra. And so, I said, “Sandra.”
The ghost smiled at me. She seemed to have accepted the name I gave her. I motioned to reach for her hand and she accepted my offer. Then we walked, pretending to be holding each other’s hands while knowing well that we were as intangible as ideas.
I brought Sandra to my condominium and showed her the dusty appliances. After that, we did not speak the entire night. We did not even move or do anything. We simply stared at each other.
We stayed there until the next morning. When dawn came, Sandra left. She did not say goodbye or anything like that, but somehow I knew that she would return. And so I stayed in my condominium until nighttime.
At exactly seven o’clock, Sandra came. We greeted each other with a smile. And then, silence for the rest of the night. It was not an awkward silence. It was never awkward. Somehow, in that restless silence, we shared our secrets. It was much like having sex, I figured. We shared our stares, our thoughts, our lives, our beliefs, our hushed laughs, our invisible tears, ourselves. We did this for months. Until the night Sandra did not come.
I waited for her very patiently when she did not come on time. I waited for her. Seconds passed by, then minutes, then hours, then days, then weeks, then months, and then years. For eight years I floated on the same spot in my condominium, still waiting for Sandra, until I gave up. I went out into the streets, floated into restaurants, listened to humans as I did before.
I searched Makati for Sandra for two months and found her in a pub full of drunken men. She still had long hair and a peculiar smile, but her unusual glow had faded. I realized that this was probably how ghosts aged. I floated towards her and smiled. She smiled back. “San-dra,” I said with more difficulty than before.
Sandra smiled. Then, she said, “Who… are… you…?”
Then, I disappeared. I did not really know how or why, but, somehow, I just stopped existing.
If there was any mortal pleasure I missed, it was the ability to feel. And probably the ability to be felt.
