The Ghost in the Gallery

To whoever left this letter on my desk: I have been thinking about how we move through the world as if we are the only ones truly awake. We walk past statues, past paintings, past the quiet weight of history, all while our own lives are rushing toward some unseen exit. We are so busy being the main character in our own frantic story that we forget we are merely ghosts in someone else’s. There is a strange, hollow comfort in being a blur, in letting the world smear around us while we pretend we are standing still. We think we are observing, but really, we are just passing through, leaving nothing behind but the faint vibration of our own hurry. If you could stop for just one heartbeat, if you could let the world settle into focus around you, would you recognize the person you were before the rush began? Or have you already become a smudge of light on a wall you never meant to touch?

Leanne Lindsay has captured this feeling perfectly in her image titled Not Reading Poetry. It reminds me that we are all just rushing past the art of our own lives. Does this stillness make you want to slow down, or does it make you want to run faster?