Chapter 1: The World in Blue

When I gaze upon the world, it appears to me in hues of blue, pulsating with electric energy left in the wake of spirits. These aren’t people, but rather portals that remain unvisited. In my view, the world is filled with potential—what might have been. This vision does not evoke sorrow; instead, it embodies beauty and the vastness of existence. What could have been is the essence of ghosts.

Initially, I thought I was imagining things when I witnessed a man pass through a wall. My perceptions of reality often clash with the possibilities before me. I am quick to criticize myself for believing in what could be. Each time my instincts resist a new perspective, I remind myself that this is merely a survival mechanism. It’s natural to be hesitant about change, yet it is essential to embrace it.

Sitting at a green light as it shifts to red feels akin to watching opportunities swirl down a drain. Time ticks away as vehicles form a queue behind me, filled with impatient individuals who honk and shout, gesturing angrily. Their reactions don’t affect me; when life has shattered my spirit like a brittle cracker, how can their aggression harm me?

Spirits move with a sense of urgency that feels almost insidious. The quicker they rush, the fewer truths remain to be faced. I often convince myself that the answer lies in increased pressure, greater speed, and heightened intensity. The reality is that I lose touch with my identity when I slow down. I can only recognize myself in moments of blurring motion—like a ghost with a faded visage.

I find myself at a gas station mini-mart, next to a Honda adorned with a mask hanging from the rearview mirror. I embody the rust of that vehicle, the ulcer in my stomach, the heartburn. I am the four-dollar energy drink and the tall boy I left in the cooler, emotions entwined with lifeless objects. More ghosts. Sometimes, I hear a voice urging me to take a drive; sometimes, it tells me to trust my instincts.

I visit cemeteries for my own reasons. They evoke a sense of profound release. The gravestones possess an ancient power, while the epitaphs serve as eternal messages frozen in time.

As I wander among the graves, the sounds of piano keys meld with the rustling of leaves, creating a vivid autumnal atmosphere. I snap a stick and place one half by the grave of a mother who succumbed to cholera, and the other half by a soldier's headstone from the Civil War. This ritual honors those who have departed and those of us who remain. It doesn’t matter that I never knew them; living is not solely about familiarity—it’s about perception.

In cemeteries, I find solitude. Like a bird perched on a stone in the middle of a rushing river, I am free from pursuit. There are invisible boundaries of propriety that keep others at bay. I feel at ease among lives interrupted, and dreams left unfulfilled. No life concludes perfectly; each is a little short of solving the riddle of humanity.

I pluck a rose, its petals beaded with dew, embodying Rothfuss's "cut-flower silence." It’s a beautiful opening, Pat. I wrap my arm around his shoulders, suggesting we head to a café in Stevens Point for espresso. How is that third book progressing?

Surrounded by spirits, I ponder what they represent—remnants of those rejected by life. Today, I seek a gravesite to connect with their stories until I am filled with grief for all of us. Then, I will gather myself again. What could have been are the echoes of these spirits.

A mosaic of thoughts and ideas is etched on my skin. I strive to uncover unused metaphors and untold stories. Thus far, I have always managed to find them, though I wonder if this will remain true. The struggle is real, almost daily, yet there’s a unique satisfaction in discovering something fresh.

At times, the graveyards and memories—the ghosts—tempt me to light a cigarette or sip whiskey neat. This represents a different kind of spirit. While I feel a sense of longing, I also embrace the path to escape and progress.

On rainy days, as the earth absorbs moisture from pine and moss, I inhale deeply. The air is rich with lingering magic. I am a student, a seeker, navigating the spaces between gravestones, observing the way forward. Patterns of them frown and smile.

Did you know that angels often prefer the company of cemeteries over churches and organs? They are drawn to where spirits reside, where opportunities flicker in frozen electric doorways. This is where life is at its fullest, most profound, and richest. It is here that I meet them.

Roman Newell is currently immersed in writing his debut novel — 20XX — a piece of magical realism that delves into the complexities and tensions of modern society amidst rapidly shifting social norms and the echoes of trauma. Subscribe to Roman's Substack to join the 20XX contact list.

Chapter 2: Insights from Local Guides

As we explore the significance of cemeteries, let’s delve into some insights from local experts.

The first video, How to Visit New Orleans Cemeteries | Tips from a Local Tour Guide, provides valuable advice on exploring these historic sites while respecting their cultural significance.

In addition, the second video, What To Do When Visiting A Grave Site: Cemetery Visitation Ideas, offers thoughtful suggestions for making the most of your cemetery visits.