I enjoy reading about ghosts much more than I enjoy being a ghost. I miss breathing. You can't laugh when you can't breathe.
The walls here are too thin. I hear everything, only there's nothing I want to hear. I miss the wind, the wailing, the cursing, the screaming. I miss those hands reaching up for me, trying to push me away.
When you die your memories begin to fade. Only your strongest moments remain. I can't recall a kiss from my mother, don't even remember her face, but I remember tearing flesh, the smell of singed hair, the struggles, the extasy.
The dirt above me hides worms and beetles. I can sense them squirming and their squirming reminds me of my love. I am eternally stiff now that my skin sloughed off my bones. I lie still, unmoving, unafraid, just terribly bored as I try to rest on this pine board. Perhaps the lid of this thing will collapse. Perhaps the dirt, the beetles, the worms, the whole world will fall down upon me and crush what remains.
Perhaps, I might be no more. Perhaps, that wouldn't be so bad.