The story I told my dad was a lie, I wasn't visited by some creepy spirit of my grand father, hell I could barely remember the man, the relationship between he and my dad was as scarce as that of me and my mother's. The real truth of the matter that day was the sun was beginning to dawn and I wanted to get back home because I was afraid of the dark. That wasn't the first tall tale I told my dad, I'd been making them up for years. For an aspiring writer it comes with the territory.
From the time my mother left I'd have theses disturbing dreams about the chaotic relationship my parents had.
I'd wake up in such terror that I'd have panic attacks and with so much rage convinced the images I had just witnessed was real that my father would literally have to restrain me until I calmed down.
The summer before I was to start my last year of junior high I was diagnosed with having a bipolar disorder. My father pulled me out of school so as he put it, He could monitor my behavior.
Any talk about my mom was like a room full of white noise.
The transmission of thought was always in the air but no sound was ever spoken. And what's the best way to cover up the cracking emptiness of white noise? Through music. Whether it was literal music or the music of thought that comes in the form of writing, I deluged myself in it. And it became my escape.
They say shades of color and waves of sound are all parts of the same spectrum. What our eyes allow us to see and what our ears allow us to hear are merely perceptions of that spectrum. So a grey area of the truth or a little white lie spoken doesn't necessarily make it false it's all about how I, the transmitter and who, the person who receives it chooses to perceive the information given them.
As spirits who live in a body, I think we are more then just human vessels. I think we are all books and we're all designed to either tell our own stories or have our stories be read and revealed otherwise others are forced to stare at our covers and therefore create there own judgement.