I saw a ghost once.
He looked like a hippie.
It scared the fuck out of me, and I’m a fucking fortune teller.
Then again, I might love nostalgia, but I fucking hate ghosts. I don’t mind sitting on the floor surrounded by my photographs, sobbing, beautifully of course, about good old times. But then those photographs get put away because I don’t want to live in the past. I love my children more than I have words for, but both of them are adults that I fucking respect, why would I trade that for being able to breastfeed them again? Sometimes I wonder if our ghosts are created by the grief for time gone by.
Our ghosts haunt us and we lose ourselves in memories and nostalgic bonds and our guides try to encourage us to keep going, it’s okay to look, to remember, but you keep going, we have no time to waste on the dead and they don’t want us to. We have no time to waste on old times, those ghosts will not strengthen our spirits and propel us forward. They are of our own making and we are responsible to the future, to put the past to bed.