“…ghost walker”

A friend mentioned a book to me. “The Language of Flowers” I have that title. It was was of the few items I took with me to the street. It’s a small joyful book. Flowers their names how they got them, and their place in artistic mythology. Tho' battered I still have it.

As in a scene from a movie. I was resting,…not sleeping such is suicide out there. It began to snow. My first night in snow. Insulated with news papers I read the story of flowers.

That would be a tear jerking scene.

I can hear the heartful music. Ya has to know how to work an audience. Though at the time I was just trying to stay warm, and sane. The dramatic possibilities came much later.

This among the reasons I never did that play. The one act performance of my Houseless year. Always seemed manipulative.

I didn’t, and don’t want pity.

I wanted to know how people could be thrown away. Their worth stripped from them. They become ghost walkers. Unseen. Then as now I want to be seen. We are all living aware beings. We must be acknowledged as being alive, and of value.