NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 14, 2026
I hold human hands
I hold human hands
After death, there are those brave ones, determined ones, excited ones, and even fearful and reluctant
ones who decide to go on. Whereas the cowardly ones, scared of change, ones who have always
feared the unknown, decide that they would rather settle for the loose, translucent life that is but a
mockery of the old one, and remain here as ghosts. I too, was offered this clear choice after my death.
I did not lack the spirit which is required to go on. It infuriates me every day to be surrounded by
these fellow creatures of mine who have nothing worthwhile in them except that of simpering small
talk, but I would not give up my situation for the world.
It has given me time to observe. Sometimes it scares me that for all of eternity I shall be trapped here,
watching, never experiencing any change, for the only change that was offered me, I refused.
Sometimes I wonder what they would all discover there, when they went on. Peace? Oblivion?
Punishment? Must be well-organised with a surplus of resources to cope with an endless supply of
people pouring in- newborns who barely breathed in their first little breaths before they arrived with
their fresh little souls; and other, older worldly beings, their souls all knarly and twisted like steely old
trees. I myself am trapped in a little corridor between true life and true death, weaker in spirit than I
used to be, but at least I can see everything I always wished to see. I hover around the mortals, and I
watch their exchanges, with interest, with disbelief and sometimes with teary eyes because I do not
believe I extracted as much as I possibly could from my life.
Something that surprises me is how easily people give their hands to each other. They give it in
fondness, they cling to each other, they grip with support, they hold on, they ache when they let go.
Out of sheer loneliness, what I felt then and what I feel now, I sometimes fleetingly slip my hand into
another lonesome looking stranger’s hand on the street. Would they feel a small comfort? I hope so.
But what I do the most is watch over faces that remind me of his.
He died a long time ago, and so soon after my own death that while I was still getting my bearings in
this place, he died and went on. I sought for him on Earth in vain for several years, until I realised
such desolation of his presence could only mean he must too have died. His ardour and his spirit made
it natural he would never be afraid of what came ahead, so he but passed through the ghost realm, and
I was wrenched over with grief that I would never see him again. Now it has been thousands of years,
and I only just a faint flicker of his face.
Sometimes I see glimpses of his expression in another human, and I shadow the face for months. It is
silly, I know. I was always severely scolded during my life for devoting myself to people.
“You cannot fall in love with someone because you believe they have the capacity to understand you!
Have they even yet attempted? Do they even care? They will sacrifice all to develop the capability to
understand the one that they love! And you are not that one!”
***
The chains that link across my waist,
Make as if to loosen,
As fearful, horrible Cousin of Hope,
Wound in insanity, smile of terror, Misplaced HopeWaves his greetings to me at the prow of his ship ‘Fantasy’
Sailing lazily across the bay.
And though I dream again
And long as I longed before,
The jingle of the silver key at his belt,
Echoes an ominous metronome on shore.
