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Do you ever just close your eyes and watch the faint, snowy patterns flicker across your eyelids?
It's an indescribable kaleidoscope of intrinsic gray that slips in and out of visible existence, as if you're only allowed to witness it behind the veil of a blurry, brown window curtain.
It's right in front of you, but so intangible that you cannot even notice the finer details of it before it's gone and back again, changed.
It's pathetic how easy it is to find that same feeling in yourself.
Loosely woven and constantly untangling, ready and waiting to be mended, but never seen. Maybe that's why ghosts wander without any real destination.
Those patterns are soft around the edges for a reason, you know. No one's strong enough to be a ghost.