They say children see things. They say they hear things. They say these things are never there, but they are. As you mature, you block it out. You block out the noises. You block out the whisper-like ringing you hear in the dead silence. You block out the shadows that move in your closet. "It's just your imagination," they'll say, "just ignore it," they'll say. Meanwhile it's running through their minds, how they heard the same whispers, they saw the same monsters lurking in their closets.
Yet, most can no longer see it. Once you hit a certain age you chalk it all up to imagination. The darkness dissipates as does the fear and we find comfort in the gentle lie of "it's all in your head."
But it's not in your head. It can't be. If I can see these things, if they can see me, if we can interact than there is no way in hell. There is no way that this all means nothing. There has to be a point- a reason why I can.
I'm going to find out.
