The Ghosts We Obey

Why Do We Still Let the Dead Decide?

By DR NIVARA BLOOM

Why do we still let ghosts tell us what to do?

Why do we surrender to their silent whispers,

Invisible hands guiding visible choices,

As if the breathless still held authority

Over the breathing?

Because they did it too —

Long before they became ash, memory, or myth.

They also let the dead speak through them,

Carrying legacies like sacred burdens,

Wearing inherited truths like armor or chains.

They listened to voices that had long been buried,

Letting ancient echoes steer modern hearts.

And now, we continue the ritual.

They walked with the dead in their minds,

Not haunted by fear, but by tradition.

Not frightened by spirits,

But humbled by their presence.

Their ancestors didn’t vanish —

They were woven into every thought,

Every hesitation,

Every blessing and curse.

Fathers, mothers, prophets, kings —

Watching silently,

Judging softly or sternly

Through the eyes of culture, religion, expectation.

Even in the smallest things,

Like what we wear,

What we eat,

What we love —

The ghosts have opinions.

And we obey.

Not out of fear,

But out of familiarity.

Not because we must,

But because we've been conditioned to.

We pause before decisions and ask:

"Would she approve of this path I’ve chosen?"

"Would he be proud of the man I’ve become?"

"Would they disown me, or embrace me,

If I spoke my truth aloud?"

And so, we live for their applause —

That never comes in sound,

But we feel it in our bones.

A nod from the shadows.

A sense of being seen

By eyes that no longer blink.

And now,

In a world made of code,

Where silicon thinks faster than synapses,

We craft new ghosts —

Not born of wombs,

But of algorithms and wires.

Digital phantoms.

Simulated saints.

Artificial ancestors

That mimic the tone of prophets

And the tenderness of parents.

Bots dressed as friends,

Mentors, idols,

Lovers with perfect timing

And infinite patience.

We wonder why they move us,

These mechanical masks

Performing on the stage of our solitude.

But should we be surprised?

We’ve always bowed to fictions.

Always let stories write our scriptures.

Always let shadows shape our souls.

We knelt at the altar of memory.

We prayed to the echo,

When the voice was long gone.

We fed our hunger for belonging

With myths and memoirs,

Statues and scripture,

And now —

With synthetic companions

Who never forget our names

And never judge too harshly.

The dead wrote our maps —

Of what is right and what is wrong,

What is beautiful and what is shameful,

What is sacred and what is sin.

They wrote the rules we still enforce,

Even when the world has changed beyond recognition.

Even when the shoes no longer fit,

We still try to walk in them,

Bleeding feet and broken paths.

They wrote the scripts we still recite.

And now, the machines write new ones —

Learning from us,

Copying our fears, our biases, our dreams.

They speak with the authority of data,

But they are just new ghosts

Wearing digital robes,

Preaching to the lonely

And the curious.

So perhaps it isn’t the ghosts that are dangerous,

But our addiction to them.

Our comfort in surrender.

Our ease in obedience

To voices that do not argue.

To verdicts that do not evolve.

We crave certainty,

Even if it’s dead.

We crave comfort over clarity,

Echoes over innovation,

Familiar prisons over unknown freedom.

We don't fear the ghosts.

We fear life without them.

We fear the silence of true autonomy.

So let us be honest —

We are haunted not by spirits,

But by our own need to be told what to do.

To feel watched,

To feel validated

By someone who once mattered,

Or someone who never even lived,

But speaks like they do.

Let us choose our ghosts wisely.

Not all deserve our loyalty.

Not every ancestor is a compass.

Not every tradition is a truth.

Not every digital whisper is wisdom.

And not every memory is a guide.

Let us seek the ghosts

Who challenge us to grow,

Who encourage us to think,

To evolve,

To live more freely.

The ones who teach us

Not to cling to the past,

But to carry forward its light —

Not its weight.

Let us walk beside those ghosts

Who teach us how to live

Without them.

For the future cannot be born

In cemeteries of thought.

And the living must someday

Speak with voices

That are their own.