Flaw Salad

Reminiscing about time spent at Faurot Field and wondering if we always inhabit the places we’ve been, if bits of their ghosts intermingle with our own, if we leave behind our soul-dust and take away a piece of the air, a bubble with all the emotions and hopes and fears left behind in soul-dusts before ours, if the bubble starts in our hearts and floats through our veins, sometimes stopping for a moment as it tickles our brains and makes us smile or wince—and if we do take places and leave ourselves behind, is there an infinite capacity to give and to take, and how long before you stop being the person you started as, before you replenish into a new soul, made up of bits of places you barely remember, so if you go back to one from a long time ago, maybe you can’t recognize it anymore, and it can’t recognize you because you lost it in another adventure, somewhere wild and exotic, or a whole mess of somewheres boring and unimportant, and the only feeling you have left is something like deja vu or an emptiness because you want to feel at home like you once did, but it’s been too long and you’ve traveled too far, so the only thing to do is walk away sad, and maybe the next traveler will feel a bit of your ache, and she will get sad and leave her sadness behind, and maybe if it’s strong enough, if it happens to enough people, it can change a place into an unhappy place, and no one knows why but they won’t go there anymore because the air hurts too much, and they feel it, like an animal, that the place is no longer good, so it gets lonely and stagnant, and maybe that’s why ghosts come alive and try to pull us in, because we’ve left them too long alone in their grief.