The Ghosts Learned to Move On

Writing by hand in Buenos Aires’ most famous café. Ha! Why not. Might as well really lean into that whole writer thing.

All those who scribbled and dabbled and doodled here before me. Can they touch me with their grace? Ha!

Overpriced. Burned coffee. Dry, dry pastry. Ha! Ha!

Well, you know, I’m just here for the photo. And the handwritten notes, of course.

Laughing at-to myself.

Burn. Choke. Burn. Will I make it out of here alive? God knows none of the jaded waiters would notice if I collapsed. I should probably befriend the group of Japanese sitting over at the next table. At least make them aware of my presence. They’ll help, if it gets to it.

Burn! Choke! Burn! Perhaps all the ghosts of great writers past have been chased away by the tourist buses.

But just in case. While I let the coffee go cold. I’ll keep the screeching going, just a little bit more. Turn within and make room for whatever could come from without.

Meh. No more self-smile. This place is dead.

Better keep to my local café. My almond milk cappuccino and my bliss ball. My self-service counter and friendly barista.

Time goes. Pages turn. And if you don’t treat them right, even the ghosts will move.

It’s alright. They’re not forgotten or ignored. Just elsewhere.

I pass this over to digital, back to the comforting clicks of my keyboard. Just hit publish. Make the holes in my wallet and throat worthwhile. Smiling, again :)