All That Is Seen And Unseen
by Ryan Creel

On the whole, the dead are far more afraid of you than you are of them. Where fear of ghosts and ghouls and various other post-life beings frequently arises from the fact we, too, will one day die, their fear of us comes from the fact that they once lived. It is a frightening thing to be alive, I am told—all fear and pain and cold and uncertainty. The dead share none of these qualms, and our day-to-day anxieties are wholly unwelcome additions to an otherwise staid, predictable existence.

“But, Holden,” you say to me, “nor do the dead have hope, pleasure, or warmth. They know not the bounce of breathtaking butterflies before a first kiss or the self-satisfaction of righteous anger or even the feeling of pride at a job well done.” And I tell you, while this is true for the most part, it is also true that the dead are forgetful things…at least when it comes to feelings.

They just don’t see things like you do.

But then, neither do I.

The dead speak to me and seek me out, for, like them, I am cold. I was not blessed by the pleasures of life; nor, I suppose, was I cursed with its worries, other than hunger and one wish. I find myself, from time to time, unable to contain this wish, this want, this need to fly. So I flap these feeble wings until my arms collapse, and I fall to the ground in exhaustion.
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