Ghosts Are Holograms. Upwards and Onwards.
I feel like the ones I’ve cared about in my life are turning to ash and blowing away. Or they’re wispy Victorian ghosts or holograms from some future- when I want to touch them, my hands pass through them, leaving me with the sobering, silent sense of being alone in the Present. Too many times I find myself questioning how real those images and impressions actually were. My old self fades as well, the wind is howling, unrelenting- blowing away layers and years and futures of who I thought I was. I don’t know the shape of the shell that will remain once the wind dies down, once the water stops cascading. I don’t know if there will be anything there at all, really.
Damn it, Bird. Come back.
Damn it, Bird. Come back.