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A Happy Ghost

Book by Karl Kristian Flores · 39 quotes · Society, Loneliness, Life

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A Happy Ghost Quotes

“The reality of life on sidewalks is it was a lot easier to imagine grandeur than to actualize it. There was no ceremony to any given second. There were patches of gray concrete. Moving machines. People who looked impossible to interrupt. So much unconquerable space in the air. It was as if an alien species dropped a smoke bomb poisoned with monotony and anywhere a man goes, he suffocates in idleness along with every element in his immediate universe. The most important event to take place was the red crosswalk signal switching to green pedestrian travel. The closest chance of romance was playing at 5:30 p.m. in the theatre. Happiness was making it to one’s destination without embarrassment. Nothing appears achievable to a singular, puny ghost who is not aided by alcohol, a camera team, or a cheering crowd—only more sidewalk and sky.”

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“No one cares about anyone else’s life, but their own, bro. That’s the thing. We’re just selfish," said Raphael. “Some surprise us though. Those unique ones who interest us— they do something new with their body. They mean words differently. They bring us in. The people who amaze us are how we know that the selfishness inside us all along was never selfishness. We were only far from certain people.”

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“The actor blinked, hurt. He felt that chilly world of duplicity— having been given her benevolence and now her indifference. Few things burned men as much as the cold side of a woman that was once warm. They’d had her once, right in their hands, but now that woman had insensibly disappeared. Will I ever know her again? What have I done? God, how she flipped her warmth altogether like a switch! I hate not knowing her anymore, he thought. The actor tried to meet her eyes, but accepted from her composure she would not be kindled.”

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“And after some months, the exposure to beauty and wealth took a toll on his mind. He could not pinpoint it at first. Andrei thought human change came from decisions, but actually it came from observation. The brain was a special piano whose song history was never forgotten; one wrong key could destroy the instrument and necessitate years of healing. For Andrei, the multitude of wealthy guests, their walks, accommodation requests, secrets, women, and jewels had achieved his natural lust for luxury ten times over and turned him into a complete ghost.”

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“Throughout the years, the ugly boy had lost belief in the practicality of love. He argued there would always be a better version of a man somewhere in the world and thus, no sound reason for a woman to commit to one. Plus, he believed, there was nothing to a woman—they did not love. They chose men for certain seasons and focused to enjoy life above all, in all its grandeur, intentionally saving sincerity for the end—once they were finished. How can men with eyes not sink into depression? And if a woman ever welcomed a man as a companion, she always smelled his feelings, which were gratifying and advantageous to her, and rosily sipped a man’s glad spring of generosity until she was satiated. Andrei saw a woman’s timeline and in response, froze his heart dry and hammered it to pieces. Steel or emptiness—these were the only two available armors available and adequate to withstand the ephemeral nature of women, who he regarded not as individual people, but as a collective entity of superficial vampires. So he promised himself he’d never woo the dead.”

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“Consequently, her need for a boy who could treat her well, understand her, and hold her true, was exceedingly high. This need became so important to her and because of this citadel, she grew fearful whenever someone came close. Chelsea failed herself once more and felt as if her towers were so high in the air, she could never jump down. And it was growing taller and taller—and her life was getting shorter and shorter— and she still had no one and no one.”

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“It was hard to invest in a person when one saw how things passed. Take the ball player, for example, who dedicates his life, gets injured, and then watches the sport proceed without him. He sits on his leather couch, watching better athletes run across his television screen, younger ones on renovated fields. And he, who sacrificed his sweat, youth, and sanity to the sport and knew coaches, teammates, and even janitors at the stadium like brothers—is forced to still live afterward. His teammates said kind words before a match, hugged him after a goal, but now seem to be focused on new seasons and new goals. He gets left behind. Did none of it mean anything? He cries for the fast world to stop and says, “Slow down. This pains me. We were just here. I used to joke with you. We said we loved each other. Wait for me. Will you just wait for me?” Those hands he shook after a victory could not care for the weeping, broken-footed man hiding in the shadows of his home, once lit by the sun, once the life of the party. When Andrei walked into a job now, or even met someone for the first time, he thought: How long will it take you to forget me?”

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“Sometimes, Andrei would feel like the moon. When he dined in solitude, when he masturbated to the couple at the hotel, or when he finished a book he could tell no one around him about, he felt singular and unaccompanied, like the stupid, radiating circle stuck in the sky. His soul would glow softly, through the darkness, deadened, but there, as if solemnly leaving a light on for anyone to come join him. Andrei would feel so far away from everyone else, like a floating object in space, lost in orbit, that no hand worried about, remembered, or attempted to retrieve.”

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“Sometimes, a feeling would creep over Andrei. And actually, it would creep over the dead man’s son beside him, too. A particular awareness would swallow them both individually, in different moments in their lives, for a few seconds. They would lie in bed and out of nowhere, freeze as they remembered that all sensation would end. Everything they’d worked on would be entirely erased. Movement would cease. The visor of consciousness would be taken off. Andrei, and his new friend, would someday no longer have the capacity to try. And they would no longer remember that they could try. They would simply no longer remember.”

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“People had tried to reel Raphael in from his silence. Their attempts were precisely why he felt so uncomfortable. He did not want to be saved or included. He liked to listen. When he asked a question, it was because he wanted to know the answer. But then they turned it around to ask, “What about you?” and this bothered Raphael, who believed the speaker only returned the question out of manners and so was never a real inquiry. Raphael would be pressured to respond and endure the painful seconds of saying something someone did not want to hear. He would trace their faltering eyes, then his words would crumble into sand, and his listener would never notice because they were not interested in the first place.”

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“He frowned with difficulty at everyone’s quick transition. He felt something crack in the room. It was like the feeling an artist got when he closed up his gallery, walked upstairs to his living quarters, and stared at the window to watch his former crowd rush to party next door and forget his exhibition one martini at a time. It was like goodbye. There was an unsaid, incomprehensive quality of unfairness to endings. They lacked a transition. The guitarist’s identity, for example, was in her strumming ten seconds ago, not when she finished and looked up at the seduced crowd as “her” again. The singer’s heart was housed in his lyrics, not in his thick-accented voice that rooms never understood.”

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“A man, perhaps an inch shorter than Andrei, sensing the height comparison, slowly passed him. The stranger still wore an N-95 mask. The pandemic ended three years ago, but Andrei identified why masks were still worn by others. While millions had died from COVID-19, others silently and ashamedly rejoiced in the virus’ demands. The requirement of face masks made it mandatory for everyone to cover more than half of their face. And for those who disliked their face, they, for nearly two years, had the chance to go out in the world and not be ugly for once. Suddenly, while they were not beautiful, they were not hideous. Neutrality can do so much for someone. This period was like a gift for those with horrid teeth, large features, cystic acne, injuries, scarring, and discoloration. Never before were so many people looked straight in the eyes. Masks were some people’s only chance to show who they were. And now, when the pandemic had ended, they were back in the shadows. Large groups of people, however, as Andrei had seen, still wore them, beneath the excuse that the virus could still return. "I would love to kiss one of you on the cheek, he thought.”

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“He yawned, his face performing that universal mixture of a smile and a frown as he stretched his arms out. One was not sure why faces did this—either waking people were activating their muscles in preparation for the day or more soulfully, the smile was gratitude for life and the frown to follow was recognition of what that life entailed.”

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“Andrei was in an elusive period in life, much like a snow leopard. He’d spent a couple of years having successfully filtered out all that was terrible and ugly in his life, from old shoes to lifeless people. However, the purification finished and he had not yet found the glint of gold to replace the damned. He had nowhere to place his lifted foot. Instead, his moral foot hovered, awkwardly, a crepuscular flesh, trembling every night, unable to set itself in a correct place. He lived in that hanging imbalance every day, and some would say this period of searching takes a while. But to him, all it did was take. Not a while. The peace of his life just takes. And takes. And takes. While Andrei may not suffer from the heat of stress or common negativity that improperly placed feet do, he lived cold, in a void, without the luxury of finding a worthy arrangement for his leopard paw.”

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“Pornography did not serve him either. Andrei used to have his personal kinks and fetishes, but after a while, nothing could get him off. For a long time, the only videos he would search were the ones titled: “Who is she?” The only thing that vitalized his self-play was the prospect of some woman on the earth no one knew of and could not find. There was something infinite to these tapes, not the appearance of the girls, but the agitating dissatisfaction and momentary access of a not-so-innocent stranger who men innocently lost forever. It consisted of poorly recorded videos, posted from a smartphone or webcam, and a desperate number of melancholy comments trying to search for the mystery woman. There were plenty of these recordings. But it broke Andrei even more when eventually he knew all the girls no one knew.”

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“He kissed the wall and bent his knees. For an instant, he grew ashamed and sad. He himself was not touched very often. Andrei sensed how pathetic he must have looked, but he was much too lonely to care. He sped up and could feel the devil cheering, “Lower. Go as low as hell,” and he limboed his way into that hell. And it was freezing and it was hot. One knows they are truly gone when their own tears start to lubricate their self-play. Andrei kept going, stroking wet, painfully, finishing at the same time the man did. And then the door opened.”

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“Andrei avoided the internet as well and this evasion only added to his gloom. He loved music, especially old songs, and he loved movies, of all sorts. If he had the patience, sometimes he would read. While most of the pages he turned bored him to sleep, certain books with certain lines disarranged him. Some literature brought him to his feet, laughing and howling in his room. When the book was right, it was bliss and he wept. His room hushed with serenity and indebtedness. When he turned to his computer, however, or took out his phone, he would inevitably come across a viral trend or video that took the art he loved and turned it into a joke. The internet, in Andrei’s desperate eyes, managed to make fun of everything serious. And if one did not laugh, they were not intelligent. The internet could not be slowed and no protest to criticize its exploitation of art could be made because recreations of art hid perfectly under the veneer of mockery and was thus, impenetrable. It was easy to use Chopin’s ‘Sonata No. 2’ for a quick laugh, to reduce the ‘Funeral March’ to background music. It was a sneaky way for a digital creator to be considered an artist—and parodying the classics made them appear cleverer than the original artist. Meanwhile, Andrei’s body had healed playing Chopin alone in his apartment. He would frailly replay movie moments, too, that he later found the world edited and ripped apart with its cheap teeth. And everyone ate the internet’s crumbs. This cruel derision was impossible to escape. But enough jokes, memes, and glam over someone’s precious source of life would eventually make a sensitive body numb. And Andrei was afraid of that. He needed his fountain of hope unblemished. For this reason, he escaped the internet’s claws and only surrendered to it for e-mails, navigation, and the weather.”

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“Andrei perched on the rooftop of the cinema and looked out at Westwood’s nightlife bustling before him. He was mounted on the single, cream, stoned gargoyle built above in the corner of the theatre. He and his gothic animal breathed under the cold moon. Yes. He always felt like the moon—generally unnoticed by the world, that never minds—and navigated richly through his life alone and uninterrupted, like a ghost. Truth is an unobvious color. Those who attempt truth will never make billboards or conversations but usually sift in the background in awkward veritas.”

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“Look at her,” he said to himself. “Holding hands! She’s probably already camped in the woods with him! Exchanged supernatural stories. Dinner dates. Shared food! Sex in the car! Concerts! I can never reach a woman like that. She’s too experienced. What new could we do? Even if we were right for each other, I’d always feel small.” Once lonely, it seemed the evolution of lonely was getting lonelier, as if sad heads boarded a lifeboat in an ocean that naturally pulled one farther and farther apart from the coast of love. Andrei still hoped though. For that coast. That was the thing with this sailor—nothing was waiting for him, but maybe there was. Every time he met someone, his eyes were slightly far away, as if asking in his head: “It’s nice to meet you, but are you there? Did you suffer and reach that place yet? You know that place. Those in that place know that place. After Tolstoy? After a thousand movies? Will you say an honest sentence?” Oh, did he beg, secretly, for strangers to meet him on that lonely floor of life—where life, still hard, was earned, and true, and golden. The place, he cried, we recognize in media, binging in our beds, but don’t dare reach on sidewalks.”

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“He'd told Alejandra this many times, but his comments had been so small in the grand scheme of things. She now knew that the largest parts of people escaped in tiny ways, tiny words, and tiny looks. One was not permitted to let themselves go and because they gripped so tightly trying to keep together the puppet they presented, parts of identity snuck their way out of holes, and released, transforming into something like a harmless quip their lover would forget. But their lover would remember it. Afterward. The schedule of human understanding was almost always set: afterward.”

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“We sat down to eat, right?” continued Gonzales. “And so... yeah, we sat down to eat and then we talked about chairs. Chairs! That drove our conversation gooooood. And none of us wanted to talk about it, but we smiled and made the best of it. Said a bunch of smart things about chairs—and French café chairs, and shopping for one, and sofas and her thoughts on the proper cushioning. And it was very engaging, but why didn’t any of us cut the crap and say, ‘I don’t care about chairs. I want to— I don’t know—roll around in the grass with you!’ We just spend the whole couple of hours able to grasp each other’s ideas and respond perfectly, but it’s so careful that we don’t get anywhere. I don’t know why that happens. We got love all up in our heads, man. We articulate who we are, but we don’t show people. She and I are just clever. There’s no chemistry in being clever. I mean, why interview on dates man? It’s not like anyone’s gonna tell the truth. Better to lay down with her, like cubs, really be with her, and see if we want to hold each other or not. But you can’t ask someone to do that, huh?” said Gonzales, defeated.”

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“It was a situation sincere hearts find themselves in of raw, dirty discomfort they cannot share. A day-to- day, on-the-ground, actual trouble of skin and reality—like flat tires, psychotic parents, immobilized brothers—a pain that the restless world would have no patience for and so was kept secret in the shadows of tragedy along with lost people, lost things, and real life.”

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“Andrei could not guess how long the patient had been in this condition. For all he knew, the patient might not have known that smartphones existed, who the president was, or that the pandemic had even occurred. Andrei contemplated the brother’s state—and imagined a mind sinking down an infinite well of scattered thoughts and gloom. He speculated the likely craze one would result to from being imprisoned inside a room, isolated from all things and all people for years. The man had no choice but to stare at the ceiling and listen to a machine that breathed for him. He could not taste the flavor of fruit, of beer, of cheese, or any delight to the tongue. He would not know temperature. He could not scratch himself nor could he ask to be scratched. He must have lost count of the days and not know if it was a Thursday in April or Sunday in May. If a nurse said something to him, he was forfeited the human naturality to respond. If a nurse hurt him, he could not protect himself. He had memories, but no friend to create more with.”

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“Why are you leaving Los Angeles?' asked Andrei. 'Something about the city. People don’t want to see each other. Everything’s too far away. A bunch of reasons. On sidewalks everyone avoids each other; it’s weird to go up to someone. Most of all, the weather’s a lie. Too much sun, and then everyone acts like the sun. You know what I mean? There’s so much to do, but no one to do it with.”

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“My antidote is to constantly create a world for me and stick to it. I don’t go out much. When I do, people start planting thoughts in my head that I don’t want. I would go home and think their thoughts. Bad seeds... unimportant seeds and I lose my streak of knowing what’s true. That’s where I’m at. I’ve this need to be sensitive to my inner voice. And what feeds that are movies I like... the book I’m reading... some paintings. Instead, when I am with others, my mind is occupied with repetitious jokes, and their envy, and ego. My antidote is the equivalent of a cozy castle of reality—protecting things and people I choose," she said. "A customized balance of my favorite worlds.”

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“Freedom sounds phenomenal to the preoccupied young. But when one is an adult and has “free days” there is simply not much to do. Even in Los Angeles, where everything was. There was an unspoken spell of solitude cast on the city. Once one has been to the main parts of town, and had their fair share at the beach, Los Angeles turned unbreathably lonely. The biggest risks took place in grocery stores where a quiet shopper chose to switch to multi-grain bread after two years on sourdough. One could use their afternoons to create art— maybe writing a poem or painting a picture—all of which pass time but are isolating activities in and of themselves. The child begs for freedom and the adult wants to be told what to do.”

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“Do people really like the way they’re fucked? he thought. Do wives like their husband’s faces? Does my weak vocabulary annoy these intelligent CEOs? How long can I speak until I bother someone? They will all smile and shake your hand, but I am afraid I am just another omelet missing the ingredient they want. I am the wrong piano key fiercely played by a pianist’s regretful pinky finger in a concert hall blaring false to the audience’s disturbed ears that certainly caught the note but whose controlled heads do not dare betray their feigned enjoyment.”

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“He thought about doing more reading. It seemed the most comforting activity to do, except for one issue. Unlike a new movie, there was no one to immediately turn and talk to about a book. All books are strays. Books were read at the same time they were unknown at the same time they were revived at the same time they were forgotten. There was no agreed-upon trend of a novel. People found them on their own and all at different stages of life. This was why it was special to have the same favorite authors as a stranger, since both souls were in need of and privately searching for the same thing. A chapter could mean so much. But because Andrei could not share his excitement with anyone without misunderstanding or respectfully feigned interest, he ruled out reading as an activity. And it takes too long to find someone who lived for the same page as you.”

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“Andrei sometimes wondered how much a river would change Los Angeles. He pictured a long stream of water that divided the city, much like the River Thames or the Seine. Rivers nourished. The water happily rewrote the aisles of streetlamps and transformed one’s nighttime walk into a feature film. It carried boats filled with a surveying crowd that waved back at any brandishing hand on land that tried. It fostered lunch dates, amusing dares, and a reference for the lost. Andrei had spent one summer abroad and met these rivers. He was astonished at the difference in conversations the Europeans had with him. They were simple and alive. The pubs helped. The accents, too. Was it the rain that reminded? he speculated. The museums? The red buses? The cheap flights to any neighboring country? So—what was it about the geography of LA that made connection impossible? Just then, the sun glared at him. He glared back.”

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“There was also a term for bikers called “target fixation.” When a rider looked at something for too long and focused on a passing object, or any small distraction to the left or right of him, he had an increased chance of colliding with that object. It was extremely dangerous to fixate. Any concentration expended that was not ahead of the rider oftentimes resulted in severe injury or death. A biker who wanted to live must not be thrown off course. And after miles and miles of riding, of looking ahead, of sixty mile per hour winds piercing his neck, the gloss of his eyes hardening, he naturally never target fixated on things or people either.”

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“It was difficult to point these folks out, to put them on trial. How could one dislike a nice person? They said all the right things. Some people like David even went to the extent of being self-deprecating. It was a strategy of invulnerability. For example, they might apologetically acknowledge they were “talking too much” or sprinkle phrases like “Ah! I’m so self-absorbed” so as to exclude themselves from any claim of narcissism. Or when they achieved things, they perfectly said they were grateful and honored. Though at home, they hungrily harbored self-interest and greed. People praised their humility and, lacking the patience to notice that tiny bullseye of falseness, called those people humble. All it took for the humble people to be humble was to break the fourth wall of ego. To announce there was a snake in the room allowed them to never be suspected of being a serpent. No one saw the serpent. But one detected when it was there. It bothered a listener quietly. Some blockade prevented Andrei’s soul from resting.”

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“He had tried so hard that day. Andrei looked toward the smoke, searching for a face, and found none. He knew there was no reward for his life. It would continue to be excruciating for him to venture into the world with stakes and yet receive no friendly consolation. No audience. There were only things and him. The state of aloneness was the condition comets came with. Oh, what a hand could do! A friend! A touch on the shoulder! But this loud torment of silence would serve as the rhythm of a much larger song that played in him—the tune of ceaseless risk. The song commences at the first streak of undertaking. And the lyrics of progress are never congratulated. How could others toast to a victory they did not understand? That they could not see?”

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“And this ghost believed he was in the last phase of life. He considered his anesthesia an inevitable chapter of a human being. After a certain amount of naked bodies, blood on the walls, and vomit on the floor, the color white will look gray. Once he surrendered to gray, the uncaring world proved his worldview. He walked the sunny streets and knew no passerby would ever save him from his rainstorm. He could cry all the way to work and back unstopped. The unconcern of the world confirmed to him that he was a ghost, not only because he was deadened from the hotel, but because when he left and stepped outside it, he knew, indisputably, everyone else was dead to everyone else. To be alive is to play the role of ghost.”

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