all that can be seen.
But sometimes the things that are unseen rush back, filling my center with a certainty that continues to amaze me. In these moments I know there are ghosts. Not the wispy apparitions that go bump in the night — these are real ghosts that return unbidden, with edges so sharp they cut and wake me, remind me that even my bravest words are bluster. Over it? Of course I am. Until the ghosts stare me down and put me in my place.
Shake it off. Give it two minutes and shake it off. Two minutes, two days, two weeks two months two years: with enough time the center grows numb and I feel nothing, I go about my badass life with a laugh and a smirk. I make myself forget. Easy, so easy to do. And then the ghosts insist I remember.
There is a certain beauty in knowing they exist. I feel no terror, only a curious and small comfort. I pick up a book, read some Bukowski. The bluebird stays locked inside my heart, but his song rings in my head.