The Conspirator

There’s a ghost in the radio. He sings a haunting rendition of Sweet Emotion. The highs and lows of instrument and voice audible here-and-there under the forefront of the afternoon’s news program. Eerily, the ghost portends its own miming, that it is Stuck In A Moment You Can’t Get Out Of.

But Irony knows otherwise. Emotions will eventually simmer down and, if allowed, chill as if it were winter’s ice storm. A commercial break is inevitably only minutes away and then the ghost will be lost forever. A haunting voice of memory, like someone yelling out on a hilltop, his echo distancing itself from its birth.

Outside, the night lives in light brighter than it wishes. Rain covers yesterday’s snow, molding it into a landlocked lake of ice, reflecting light it would normally shatter into millions of pieces. As I walk, the icy snow crunches, a sound just like that of a canyon echo. I must have inadvertently released another ghost who will now roam about upon the free-blowing wind, following where Earth’s air pressures heavier. But the Irony of the ghost’s journey is that he will end right back in the waves of the radio.

The wind, it is Earth’s conspirator.

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