The land turned dark when I was young. I don’t remember the stories about why – the people who told them are all dead. Some of them gave their lives so I could survive. There’s a thought that keeps crossing my mind, hounding me day and night, forcing insomnia into my bones.
I think, sometimes, that their ghosts must live there. In my bones, I mean. Our souls carrying theirs until we die, and then someone else picks up all the weight. Maybe that’s why so many people are so sad, so weighed down – we’re all carrying the ghosts and souls of generations and generations of ancestors and it’s just too heavy. We haven’t evolved to carry this much weight.