I am just a person. I just am. I live in a building, with people who are.
I refuse to know them, and they will never know me.
All they know of me are phantoms whispers and soft songs; Music to conceal the sounds of me cooking, cleaning, bathing, pissing, living.
A fearful thrill. Creeping past doorways, and moments of motionless on the creaking stairs.
To those who dwell in this building I am nothing more than a rat.
I do not hope to be mysterious.
What I hope is for it to remain unknown to the tenants whether there is another being residing in this building.
Or, better yet, that they are absolutely sure that there is no one else; nothing but creepy crawlers in the barren basement that is my sanctuary.
Assume it is only those who are seen above the surface who come and go from the same door daily; Those who pick up their mail mid-day, and stop to chat in the hallways.
I am not a recluse, nor anti-social;
But my nonexistence is comforting. Reveling in sweet solitude, eavesdropping the unaware from my tiny home.
Ghostly tranquility, and romantic evenings spent alone.
I do not wish to know my neighbours.
I do not wish to have them knocking on my door asking to borrow sugar or eggs.
Giving me their unwanted company as if they were rodents themselves.