Day 225 Writing Short Stories And Ruminating About Hungry Ghosts

Sleepless

The rattle of feet dragging against the street echoed around the village. A village that sleeps under the mountain, under the tall trees, and in the green that had taken over every free inch humans didn’t use. It was a paradise—a place of inner peace, conversing with nature.

Yet the sleepless nights consumed the paradise. The hungry ghosts dragged their sunken hearts on their sleeves. Their listless eyes, a deep fountain of need, were never satisfied. They clasped onto the living, sinking their teeth in, sucking them dry. The paradise, lost on them.

Ten Books

These are the ten books that have shaped me:

Hogfather by Terry Pratchett was the first book that made me feel like the world made some sense. Before Pratchett’s Discworld, I always felt like an alien, like an egg born into the wrong nest. The way he viewed the world and poked fun at ideas and customs we hold sacred made me realize that my sense of strangeness has a reason.

Consider Phlebas by Iain M. Banks made me fall in love with sci-fi and speculative writing.

Letters from a Stoic: All Three Volumes by Seneca made me understand that the same questions I/we battle with are the same ones that have touched humans for thousands of years.

1984: Ninteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell made me understand the human condition better. It has shaped my mind and my view of society.

Player Piano by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. made me fall in love with his writing. I feel at home in his words.

The Sane Society by Erich Fromm explained to me why our world is like it is, and why everything seems wrong.

The Hobbit, or There and Back Again, by J.R.R. Tolkien made me fall in love with fantasy.

How to Win Friends & Influence People by Dale Carnegie helped me with my social anxiety. It made me understand human interactions and where they stem from.

Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men by Caroline Criado Pérez made me realize that the world we live in isn’t made for women.

Cobalt Red: How the Blood of the Congo Powers Our Lives by Siddharth Kara is a recent read. It shaped my view of the world and forced me to open my eyes to what capitalism actually means, that there is a high cost.

Bulldog

The little dog, no older than a few months, stood at the gate, eyeing everyone who passed by. It let out a sharp bark if it thought someone was going to enter the yard. She watched the little pup from the window, drinking her tea.

The neighbors had said that it was cruel to let the pup stay out there alone. That she was inviting someone to take it, to top it all. But she had found it cruel to keep the little sweetheart inside, when all it wanted was to observe all those who passed the house by. When it had had enough, it would waddle back inside and curl with her on the armchair, where she pretended to keep on working on her notes, but all she actually did was to cuddle the little guard dog and guard its sleep.

The bulldog was a blessing. It was her dead father’s dog that she had been forced to take, and now they both healed together of the loss like no other. Together they formed a family, and as it was Christmas, that union kindled her heart — made it all warm and fuzzy, made it healed, whole.

The prompts are from the book A Year of Creative Writing Prompts.

On this Christmas Eve, YouTube recommended a video from Thich Nhat Hanh, and I followed the link, ending up watching videos about the Buddhist concept of hungry ghosts, which led to the first writing prompt. As I wrote the prompt, I took out my notebook and began writing by hand the sensation inside me, and I discovered that I’m a hungry ghost. There is a deep yearning inside me, hungry to be fulfilled. It is the absence of acceptance as I am, something I have carried with me since I can remember. All turned into this yearning to be perfect, do the perfect thing, say the perfect thing, never rattle the feathers of others, yet I could never be that, I was made wrong to be that, and I was left with hunger for acceptance and want. No want, no thing, no person could satisfy the hungry ghost inside me, not when I keep feeding it. I never knew I did. I could brush it off, seeing only the hunger of others, yet mine was left alone to grow.

I’m not sure what to do with this realization. It feels painful. It feels raw. I’m ashamed of the hunger inside me. I could state that it is only natural. It is part of the generational trauma given to me, part of this Western society of ours. But that would only smooth my hungry ghost, calm it down for a second. I don’t want that. I want to let go of my hunger, the restless desire that nothing can satisfy. I wrote in my notebook that the only thing thus far that has been able to stifle the ghost’s thirst has been the stillness next to my ever-so calm and wise husband. When I put my cheek against his shoulder, everything goes quiet inside me. I feel at home. But as I step away, the noise comes back. I guess writing does it for me, too. There is salvation in meaningful action and connection.

Somehow, I have to accept myself — or drown myself in action, never to remain still…

I’m not sure what the answer is, but at least I know what animates the ghost inside me, and keeps it fueled. There is that. I hear the ghost rattle, and I don’t have to respond.

Thank you for reading ❤ I’m sorry about the morbid topic on this fine eve. Have a day full of merry and jolly! Gifts are/can be more than consumption. They are little messages that people think of you, that they care.