There comes a point in time in our lives when we realize that this isn’t a game.
That this is literally the life that we have to live, unfolding in front of us like a flower on speed.
True friends are the rarest of flowers. Like an orchid in the bayous of Louisiana, true friends are scarce and elusive.
On the other hand, they hide in plain sight and are abundant if we can see them.
I woke up this morning and wished that I could talk to a friend who is no longer alive. So I wrote.
And perhaps this is all any art is, really - Talking to ghosts until they no longer haunt us.
We talk to ghosts (we write, we paint, we sculpt, we surf) until finally, at some point, exorcised of the past, we can move on into the present.
And then we can see the orchid in front of us.
I woke up and wrote a thousand words, emptying my mind.
And then I wrote the above.
Then I rewrote it. And again.
Finally, it resembled my thoughts.
156 words that are relatively free of bullshit.
But in a day, in a week, or a year, I will read those words again, and I will see the bullshit that I couldn’t see before.
So the only thing that I can do is to continue to talk to ghosts until all I can speak is the truth.