Nobody sees me.

 I sit alone in this house, alone but not alone. Life still goes on around me. The hussel bussel of everyday, the chatter, the laughter, the arguments. Oh yes the arguments, how I would love to join in, but nobody would listen long enough to hear me.

The house is an old house and has had many minders. Some I have liked and some I have not. I don't mind the latest lot and I sit and watch them. Their struggles to be happy, to fit in, to like each other. I wonder at times why they make it so hard. Perhaps I'm old school, where everyone knew their place and what was expected of them. A much easier time but also much harder. 

I wander around from room to room. I hear them  react to the sound of my footsteps and yet they cannot see me. They shiver when I enter a room where they all are and someone says, "it's very cold in here," and they turn up the heating.  I don't feel cold, but I seem to make them feel so. It's strange I should have that affect on them. 

Perhaps I should make more of an effort to let them know I am here, bang a door or two, move an object, that would be fun. I did do that once, a long time ago. The people panicked and got in a person they called a psychic. She said all sorts of nonsense about me and then proceeded to do what she called a clearing. I cleared off upstairs while that was going on. Sitting on the edge of a bed, decided I wouldn't go down that road again.

I don't know why I am still here, watching others live their life. It's as though the house won't let me go. So I remain, and accept that nobody sees me.