I can’t help but think about all the ghosts I carry in my mind. People who are still walking the earth, but who no longer exist in my world although there are remnants of them. Old paintings, photographs, gifts, secrets, memories. Noises and songs and places and smells that trigger memories that we shake away before they root themselves. I entertain the ghosts sometimes though. I wonder how all the people I stopped talking to are doing. I wonder if they ever got to do that thing they always talked about doing. I wonder if they’re still pursuing their passions or if their paint brushes are hardened. If their favorite show changed. If they still cry about the same things. If they ever got over that fear. I never bring myself to reach out, I’m not sure why. It’s weird how it’s awkward to talk to someone you once told you loved.
It’s sad how sometimes it takes death for us to appreciate life. Funny how it’s always the little things we remember.
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