Chipped paint and rusted metal, discarded on backwoods roads. We wandered about through an amusement park comprised of the forlorn and forsaken, cameras in hand, piles of busted glass and tetanus-inducing nails underfoot, wary of being caught. A sign, spray painted on the side of water tower, declares our imminent death at trespassing, and we wonder aloud at the likelihood.
Someday, yes, but not today.
There’s something magical about forgotten places. The broken down, the decrepit, the rotten, the abandoned. I relate to these places, am drawn to them. The years I spent feeling alone, the forced wanderlust, the memory, so sharply etched into my psyche, of feeling, at the core of my soul, how I would never fit in. I was a star-shaped peg trying to fit into a hole without shape, and laying my tired eyes upon old places soothed a soul aged with the weight of the world I felt I had to carry.
Months later, today, grey clouds hang low, and my soul hangs softly amongst them, and it seems fitting for the deeply contemplative meandering of a mind somewhat shaken and most certainly sad. The humidity in the air wraps somber arms around me, and that day, those moments, surface back to me in a melancholy melody that sings, somehow, to awaken the happiness inside me.