"We suffer primarily not from our vices or our weaknesses, but from our illusions. We are haunted, not by reality, but by those images we have put in their place."
--Daniel J. Boorstin
When I was 6, my family moved into an old two-story house in the Wilson family's hometown of Ingalls. It was a large house with a basement that expanded the length of the house underground. The house had old books and trinkets left behind by the old couple that used to live there. I found that much fascinating because they were things I could treasure. What I couldn't truly treasure were the things I found in the basement (which included an antique film camera). I was so afraid that ghosts lived in the shadows of that basement that, if I did venture down there, I only stayed in lit areas. To this day, I'm still a bit frightened by the idea of having a ghost dwell in my living space. I realized just last night, though, that a ghost (or rather a few ghosts) do dwell in my living space because I allow them. My past is riddled with ghosts that I let haunt and torture me. Most of them small enough to pass over, but a few that stand in my face and scream at me. Yesterday, I decided to come face to face with one of these ghosts and shoot a shotgun shell full of salt at it (thank Supernatural for that one). Though I know the ghost hasn't been completely vanquished, I know I did it a world of hurt. I didn't do it on my own, though. I know that God did the majority of the work and I am immensely thankful for that. God has the ultimate authority over my ghosts and without Him, I'd be an absolute lost cause.
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