The Shattering of the Stars

When I was younger I used to read ghost stories. I think the reasons I did this are complex enough to merit several pages of self-reflection. I am totally serious. But that's not the point. The point is, I can find no scientific reason why my house is not haunted. In fact, were I still into the genre as much as I once was, I would be concerned. The lack of supernatural harassment in my present world would have puzzled nine-year-old me, so much so that I would have feared for my humanity.

I remember reading once about a study, such as there can be, on poltergeists. They are not like normal ghosts, which were apparently human in their day. Instead, poltergeists are believed to be a projection of pure emotional energy, so alive with power that they take on their own form. They are said to be an actual excretion of neglected anger, or frustration, or love, or whatever, and because they were never dealt with, and never took shape in the place where they were born, they just sort of wander around and smash dishes and pout. So basically there are certain people that are so wired with metaphysical energy that they just start pooping out ethereal teenagers.

But that's not the point either. The point is that I am drunk and I don't know what I am saying. But I do know that I need a place for my ghosts. I have a habit of letting those vapor trails fade out of existence without making an effort to shatter a window or two in their names, and for my own peace of mind, I would like it to stop. So here they will go.