I remember a time about four years ago when I used to tell a certain person â€œI am a ghostâ€. It wasnâ€™t a constant feeling I had, but it was frequent. I donâ€™t know why I felt as such; so transparent, so blank. I rejoiced over sadness because that was sometimes the only time I felt anything at all. But this wasnâ€™t something that depressed me necessarily, but more like something I simply observed within myself. I knew it wasnâ€™t my default, so I allowed it to reside in me. It extended to the feeling that everything around me was also quite empty. Full of things that didnâ€™t interest me. Things lacking depth. Things I didnâ€™t believe in. It engulfed me, this lack of world I somehow found myself in. How could I have known that it was the beginning of me understanding myself? That it was a good thing, somehow.