When we die we turn into stories. And every time someone tells one of those stories, it’s like we’re still here for them. We’re all stories in the end.
There’s no without. I am not gone. I’m scattered into so many pieces, sprinkled on your life like new snow.
I was right here. I didn’t go anywhere. I was right here. I was right here the whole time. None of you could see me. Nobody could see me.
I was all the things, all the familiar things. I was stressed and excited and content and motivated and concerned and exhausted and annoyed. And grounded and nervous and creative and proud and all of the things. But all those colors, they’re all gone now, Hugh. And there’s only one left. I’m scared. That’s all I am. There’s nothing else. I’m only scared.
Ghosts are guilt, ghosts are secrets, ghosts are regrets and failings. But most times, most times a ghost is a wish.
Fear is the relinquishment of logic, the willing relinquishing of reasonable patterns. But so, it seems, is love. Love is the relinquishment of logic, the willing relinquishing of reasonable patterns. We yield to it or we fight it, but we cannot meet it halfway. Without it, we cannot continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.
People f*** up. I guess you don’t get that, you don’t really get it until you f*** up. Really f*** up.