Being haunted is the experience of being pursued by shadow.
The alchemy of thought, feeling, or recollection felt as a physical thing, a tension in the chest, a pair of eyes on the back. It is characterised by its longevity, such that wherever one goes or whatever one sees, they will find a reminder of what haunts them. It worsens what is already painful, sorrowful, or lonesome, and leeches from what is joyful, bright, and pure. That is its uncanny ability. Like a hand steeped in ink, it leaves its mark wherever it goes, and as is its nature, it follows wherever its subject travels, never forgetting, first and foremost, to leave its touch upon them.
The character of a malevolent haunting is repetition.
It is what was permeating what is. It asks to be reintegrated into the present, or does not ask at all, and simply enters uninvited. If the past has power, it has none without this ghostly method. For even the most blissful, euphoric, heavenly moments can be twisted into a kind of torture when placed in the context of mourning, or longing. That is, when they are in the shadow of a great haunting.
The depth of the past is a bottomless well, and having fallen into it, rather than drawing from it intentionally, the journey to climb free may become very long indeed. Having done so, we might find ourselves, for some time, being the very creature which leaves foot and handprints wherever we go.
Contrastingly, a moment of careful nostalgia is just one recipe for a haunting that aches, but wonderfully. It, too, may arrive without asking permission. It, too, may arise in unexpected moments, or remain steadfast through a season or many seasons, through the gilded winds of autumn, the stretching quiet of winter, and into the buzzing bloom of summer. A singular sound or song may trigger it, a poem or an artefact. Whatever it may be, having crossed paths with it again, we find ourselves in a wraithlike embrace. Instead of fearful, it is welcoming. Instead of paranoid, it is reflective. Instead of obsessive, it is respectful, and distant.
The character of a benevolent haunting is that of an old friend.
We remain comfortable to sit with it. We wonder how the feeling might evolve, and are content to ask it questions. How it got here. Why it inspires these feelings, and what else they might bring.
In this particular instance, there may even be a sense of its good fortune. That this sensation will not arrive again any time soon. Like a sunset, or a starry sky catching us off guard, we often make no plans to pursue the next one, yet simultaneously, unknowingly, we wish for that experience to summon itself more often.
There are no limitations to how such hauntings will manifest themselves in our lives. Particularly those which inspire in us feelings of wonder, gratitude, solemnity, curiosity. In recognising this, it becomes evident that the description, ‘hauntingly beautiful’ is often given to music of sorrowful if not exquisite nature. The instrument of the cello may be the quintessential, musical embodiment of this description.
At first glance these two words contain a paradox. ‘Haunting’ and ‘beautiful’. But should we sit with the art that inspired such an interpretation, it becomes clear that there is no paradox. That, in its nature, a haunting is a chimera of beauty. It is both unrequited love and the longing of youth. The hope for a brighter future and the flight away from a darker past. It is what we are becoming and what we hope not to be.
To be haunted is to be human. A human briefly made ghost.
