Today I’m not the only one who sees the ghosts dancing.
It’s raining when the music starts. The sidewalk is covered like a tarp with boiling black umbrellas – they rise from the crowd, swell and then settle into the constant stream. Occasionally a white fringe appears in the herd, or a calm blue, quickly subsumed. The music doesn’t slow the jostling crowd, not at first. The steady beat of drums takes a minute to separate itself from the noise of traffic, from the hum of electricity, from the racing heartbeats of people whose minds are far away.
But slowly, their steps falter. Their eyes lift from weary feet, scan each other and the sky with hesitant attention. The drums grow louder. Here and there, guitars begin to sound. The shake of a rattle, wood on wood. And then, rising above it all, the clarion trumpet sounds the day. And the dreary afternoon explodes in light.
The street is awash with dancers. Commuters stop in their tracks, stunned, and I want to crow with self-satisfaction. I told you! I want to hurl. I said that they were real! But no one is paying me any attention, not while the ghosts have their day.
They look different here, in the light, with the eyes of the world on them. More substantial than I’m used to, more clearly in our world. Their ghostly forms trick your eyes into seeing what makes more sense – no robes, but rain slickers; no slight faerie forms, but children. Someone plays a flute and I plug my ears, afraid to follow, but everyone else is watching with rapt attention, and I worry it will be too late.
They move in perfect choreography. Their faces are almost blank, tinged with faint concentration, as if each motion is an ingredient in a complicated spell. I find myself drawn towards them, feel my arms lifting to mime along. I see them every day, the ghosts of all our yesterdays, and people tell me I’m insane. But now they see them too, and the awe on their faces is a vindication.
Tomorrow I will go back to being invisible. I will sit on the ground with a hat at my feet, and ask for pity from the people who have left me here, pitiless. Tomorrow I will be told I’m wrong for seeing what everyone else is blind to; tomorrow I will be lonely, and cold, and damp. But not today. Today the music is all around me, and the commuters have pulled the stitched out of their frowns and are smiling. Today we all see the ghosts dancing.
Image courtesy of Stuart Thursby. Stuart is an art director and photographer. This photo was taken during his adventures in the wilds of Germany, from which he has recently returned. To see more of his work, or to check out his portfolio, please visit StuartThursby.com.