The house is quiet and empty save for a small electric space heater humming in my office as I sit still in order to be here. I find myself easily distracted with forays into social media in order to sense the presence of others. Are they really there? Or are these presences hauntings of inner presences, complexes and their underlying connection with archetypes? As I add in a few words, here and there through the invisible spaces between my keyboard
and the visible platforms that take shape, my words take on their own presence, distant yet connected. Responses to these words are just that, responses to the words as though the words are actually a person. Each interaction becomes something more and something less that what perhaps was consciously intended. If anything, the spaces in between are indeed haunted by a swirling chaos of projections by self and others. And in those spaces, stories are being written.
“So, what is the “real” story of our lives? Are they all real or all unreal, all provisional? There are the stories we tell ourselves, and the stories we tell others. Some of them may even be true. But what are the stories which are storying their way through our dai- ly lives and of which we are mostly if not wholly unaware? What are the stories that represent our rationalizations, our defenses, the stories in which we remain stuck like flies in molasses? “ [James Hollis, Hauntings, p. 5]
As the darkness begins to lift with the approaching dawn, the ghosts are banished and life begins to take form. I begin to feel the chill in the air on my bare skin and sense the presence of others in my life, both in the house and in the houses of neighbours who are beginning to stir and turn on lights in their insulated homes. With night banished, I more easily return back to the world of ego and things.