The world’s beauty is in soap bubbles, little specks of dust, galaxy shards, tiny things swept under the rugs that we stomp on day after day because we’re too busy to notice small treasures. That’s what I hate about life. That even when I’m not busy, I’m busy. The busy ghost presses his hands into my back and pushes me one way or the other to do this or that. I want to stop to see, to think, to breathe. I want to put my ear to the soil and listen for the ants. I want to daydream, fly a kite, run my hands through thick, green grass. But there’s so much noise. So much pushing. I enjoy hearing nothing but the tick-tock of the clock. That and the sound of my heart, which tells me that, yes, I am still alive.