This is the wall to a big old mansion on my street. You can tell its a wall that holds ghosts. I think I can hear them crumbling inside the bricks as I pass, their lost souls feeding noisily, frail souls passing between the cracks trying to find their way out. Are they any different to us, ghosts? If they exist of course. Maybe they are just an extension of ourselves, the lost parts of our minds wandering trying to find their way home. The parts we have cast out, the dark bits we don't want to deal with but leave scattered everywhere we go. Maybe its myself I can hear in there, whispering those words I am unable to say outloud. Maybe everything contains parts of us we have disregarded. Can I honestly say that I have sung my own song throughout my life, no I haven't. I bet you haven't either.
For years I didn't write because I was told by a teacher I had nothing to say, I didn't take photographs because I was told I didn't know what I was doing. How much of other people do we listen to when we should be listening to ourselves? How many of you are living half a life, afraid to do the thing you have always dreamt of. Oh here she goes, I hear you say, another one of those people who think life is all about living your dream. Well yes, hear this. Do you think that perhaps if we all woke up and realised that doing what we came here to do, and not putting it off because its too risky would be dangerous, there would be no order?
There is no 'order' people. We are failing and we are failing fast and mostly because we are afraid to take a risk. Is there not irony in that?
Hungry ghost. Yes that's you.