Imagine great machinery processing souls, in and out, in and out. Baby in. Old dude out. The great cog in the mechanism turns once more and another baby lands in the world, splat, kicking and screaming.
Leaving the world in the form of a spirit then might be like stepping up to an express checkout lane, what with so many dying every second across the globe. The smallest amount of time possible is spent then in processing the new death, in the interest of economy and to keep pace with ever-increasing numbers.
There will always be at least one penny in the run improperly struck, with an askew rim and a dizzy, doubled president in side relief.
The system will have anomalies, like Neo and Trinity(I'm joking here). And The One(Jesus).
Having never seen a ghost, I have nevertheless been told tales of all kinds regarding ghosts, spirits, and manifestations of persons departed. I'm not peeing on the beliefs of other people, but stating emphatically that at this point I do not believe in ghosts; however I have acknowledge that a passing may occasionally not go by the natural order, like a peanut falling from the hopper onto the factory floor in the great Factory of Life.
A drive with a ghost:
A song. Always a song, narrator driving along, picks up a hitch-hiker. Maybe the hitcher bums a smoke from the driver. But always, just before he exits the vehicle, he gives a clue to his identity.
"That was Hank Williams, or Dale Earnhardt, what I gived a ride down the road. At least I helped his lost soul along a far piece", a rustic might think.
The ghost then just needed a boost from A to B. Like an Uber customer. Except dead. And famous. And not offering any gas money.
And Nashville chunked the story into a song, and people found it meaningful, in some way, somehow, despite logic, despite knowing that famous person is lost. And some songwriter and singer have then cashed-in on the name of the famous and dead person referred to.
"That was Ronnie Milsap. That was Beaufort Pusser. That was Merle Haggard. That was Jerry Clower." A lost soul on a highway, according to Nashville, that the befamed are somehow greater, larger, and even in reality unhappy, and die to become searching and unhappy ghosts.
"Oh, how do I spend all the filthy money?" Success a burden? On the weak-minded among us. Face it people: we elevate some broken, barely-functional people. We then hound them, severely fracturing any chance for a celebrity to know a regular life. I think of Mike Tyson fixing his soul, becoming a better man, but a worse boxer. I think of Heath Ledger and the pills. Phillip Seymour Hoffman and the pills. Johnny Depp and the goats.
Like the scene in Tim Burton's Batman, in which Batman and the Joker argue about which of the two made the other, that each had forced the hand of the other, influencing through violence. Though the Joker's plight was sort of well-earned punishment, while Bruce Wayne was traumatized by the turd Napier during the commission of a crime. But it's emotional wrought Hollyweird crap in the course of a lack of consequences and rules-the villian and the masked revenger arguing motive.