Author: Philip G Hostetler

Maggie’s been gone for a while now. But not into a black hole this time. Normally she’d discorporate into the metaphysical unknown but this time, she’s just been…

…happily traveling.

I miss her, like a solar system misses it’s rogue planetoid, flung out beyond and returning every 4,000 years as a flickering comet to be seen in the sky for one night only, like she was just taking a nostalgia tour of her long lost friends, just to wink with a genuine grin and say,
“Goodbye, catch you next time!”

I suppose time has no meaning to the genuinely inspired, I suppose pretenders can’t hold a candle to the beautifully estranged, the independent and courageous. She wasn’t always that way, she was just receptive, and I was a constant output of absurdity, like the two-slit experiment personified, perpetually in two different states, though I thought they were the same. I must’ve been so confusing.

Maggie, I won’t ask where you’ve been this time because, well, I’ve actually been busy. Busy with the inspiration that you, and so many, have left me. I’m not building anymore, I’m just happily being, creating, ruminating. I’m more of a particle than a wave these days, and the waves around me don’t much appreciate the wake I leave behind, interrupting their tides.

But I suppose that’s what got her attention in the first place.