Old Ghosts on Halloween
Nothing stings quite like betrayal.
Years ago, when I was fighting battles on every front, I did what anyone with half a brain would do:
I went looking for my best friend.
The one who grew up with me.
The one who felt like a brother.
The same guy I sweat beside in rehearsals, with cheap amps and unforgettable gigs.
Yeah, that guy.
We all have that childhood friend —
the one you swear will be there at the end of the story,
raising a beer and saying, “we made it.”
And since he’d become one of those people devoted to “well-being” “self-help” and “personal growth,” I figured:
“Perfect. He’s got the tools… and the heart. We’ll get through this easily.”
The Twist
But life has a very particular sense of humor.
When I turned to him,
he not only refused to help,
he used our short conversation to give me a little crash course on left-wing politics. Ha!
Instead of recommending Tolle or Peterson — as any self-help enthusiast might —
he urged me to read the political manifesto of the latest “man of the people.”
And, of course, questioned my intelligence for having an opinion without first studying his hero’s masterpiece.
I never read it.
And four years later, I still don’t regret it.
That grand experiment they call “collective consciousness”? A full-blown three-ring circus.
Quite the diagnosis coming from someone who claims to “elevate consciousness.”
That was the last conversation we ever had.
Life moved on:
my daughter, my work, the music, new projects…
and even some true friends finding their way back into the picture.
I’m busy — doing what I love, asking no permission, taking no opinions.
I’m better than ever.
Back in the arena, mind clear, soul light.
What used to hurt is long gone.
The Ghost
But on Halloween, like an old phantom I’d already buried, he materialized in a chat.
Put on his show — fishing for attention, especially mine — with his two or three harmless little goblins rubbing their hands together, thinking they’d cooked up the prank of the century from the shadows, at fifty years old.
I once read that a lion doesn’t care about the flight of a fly and here they are, determined to make me Simba. Ha!
The attempt at mockery? Crystal clear.
If that’s what he came looking for, then he is most welcome.
More than anyone he knows I got a bag full of goodies. 😉
Some people really don’t understand how public perception works.
Does he not realize he is being watched by friend and foe alike?
Who would trust their mental health to someone preaching serenity while playing games with other people’s emotions?
That’s like spitting into the wind and expecting it not to land on your face.
Like your typical YouTube therapist the “guru of calm,” caught in the very storms he claims to master.
A person trying to stir emotional chaos in someone to whom he once owed loyalty…
Freud would’ve charged double for that.
And the effect on me?
Zero.
Carnival-grade magic. Sparklers and smoke.
But hey — at least it gave me material for this entry.
Something got summoned: at the very least, a good laugh.
The Silent Reader
Apparently, every one of these posts gets read.
I thought the guy lived on a diet of Jung and Kafka, but it seems he also devours these little essays.
And if laughter heals…
then let the therapy continue.
The Remedy
Once, I went looking for guidance from a master of self-help.
And I learned exactly one thing:
Self. Help.
Cut out the middleman.
Sometimes, that means leaving certain ghosts exactly where they belong: in the past.
K.O.