I remember a time about four years ago when I used to tell a certain person “I am a ghost”. It wasn’t a constant feeling I had, but it was frequent. I don’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 wasn’t something that depressed me necessarily, but more like something I simply observed within myself. I knew it wasn’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 didn’t interest me. Things lacking depth. Things I didn’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.