Ghostly

I’ve never quite found myself. I feel as though I spend my time like lint from the bottoms of my empty pockets. There is so much I desire to do. So much I have to say, yet I’m quiet. Trapped behind my eyes that gaze forward. I’ve been told I am beautiful for the way I look, but inside I cannot see myself. Who is she? I ask the deceiving mirror. Ms. Mirror whispers lies onto me. She tells me I am simple. I am just flesh and bone, mysterious eyes where my soul resides.

A walk usually helps. I walk beside myself. Admiring the complex mundane world. A paradox in and of itself. Why must it be?

My favorite walk is to some forgotten place. I find the forgotten to be comforting. Are we not all forgotten, if none of us have never been known?

This forgotten place I can imagine it when loved. A beautiful well kept garden where the hedges remained trimmed. The flower’s color-coordinated down the pathway to where a house once stood cozy. The fountain always flowing crystal clear water with yellow finches cleaning their delicate wings from a day of flight. Oh to be a yellow finch. So small, beautiful too, but not so complex. I like to think even the simplest-seeming of creatures too are complex within. Only they are not burdened with the worries of modern days. Time cannot be wasted because to them it doesn’t exist. I like to think if they did have time to spend their feathers would be spent as gold.

Now this garden rests tirelessly unkept. The flowers tangled with weeds. Weeds I find to be beautiful on their own. I’ve never understood the negative stereotype that came with weeds. Perhaps they are just misunderstood. Seen as a nuisance simply for existing. What a cruel world that people can decide to collectively dislike things. I feel ignorance floods the air.

The fountain falls quiet and dry now. Eaten alive by vines that stretch the buried pathway. At the center of the garden remains a clearing. A small pear tree awaits. What it awaits I have no clue. I suppose this tree that exists only for itself awaits nothing other than death. No, death isn’t awaited, Death is the simplest of all things. It simply is. So I suppose this pear tree doesn’t await anything at all. Just as death, this lonely pear tree simply is. Perhaps my mind wanders to things that most people would worry to think of, but there is beauty in everything, right? This pear tree came to exist from seeds, seeds of a pear long gone. Maybe some memory exists within this tree from the seeds that had sprouted it. The original pear was shared by a couple deep in love long ago. This couple had planted the seeds of their shared pear in the backyard of their cozy home. They spent a long life together creating a beautiful garden as a trope to their endless love, just as this garden lives on freely.

I like to imagine so at least.

Anyway, the pears are ready for picking. With each day I visit this ghostly garden I find myself contemplating picking one pear. I can imagine myself taking a bite of this seemingly perfect pair that would otherwise go to waste, but I know my mouth wouldn’t welcome the taste. I’ve never cared for pears (as much as I’ve tried). That is something I know of myself. I suppose it’s the small things. I know that picking the pair would be a waste. Letting the pair simply fall and dissolve again into the earth, not so much. A fallen pear to sprout another tree to become a comfort to someone else beyond myself. I can recognize that I have no right to this tree for anything more than admiration. So I sit beneath the tree and I close my eyes. I exist here. No expectation of who to be or where to go. My time is never wasted here, and so I presume that this garden is not yet forgotten.