leave

This Town.

This is my Town.  This is my city. This is my home when shit gets gritty.
I see the lights, hear the sounds, and know everything will be okay now.

This is my block, this is my home. These are my streets that lead me home. It doesn’t matter where I am going. It just matters how long before I come back to the familiar stench of this familiar city. I watch things come, I watch things go. People are free to come and go as they please. Leave and return, everything will be okay soon.

I want more. I want more than the bare boned buildings that become nothing more than skeletons of our past. More than this slowing pulse of people settling, growing further away from who they used to be. A million mistakes away from our future self. A thousand forgiven apologizes in the form of morphed manipulation into something different. This town changes you. This town keeps your grounded. This town sucks at the empty soul of your youth and helps settle you into the bitter adulthood.

We were all those crazy kids once. Kids that travelled to larger cities, bigger than our hometown. Away from the familiar streets. Away from the roads that lead us home. Seeking adventure, seeking life, seeking something bigger than this mundane life. You could always go home, they say. Always come back to this town that stayed embedded into your brain.

We grow up to hate each other. Grow up bitter from our past and grow up to shatter the shells of our former selves. This isn’t what was suppose to happen. This wasn’t how I was suppose to be. We all said we’d be friends forever. Now I can’t even look at half of your faces. We grow up to be better versions of ourselves. When does that actually start? Half of us aren’t better, instead we are bitter. I can’t stand by this anymore.

This town is home when it feels fit to be. This town is my town, whenever I want it to be.

 

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My dress it hangs there.

my-dress-hangs-there

Life has a funny way of imitating art. Which is why I find myself loving so many photographs, paintings, and writings of everything. Art has a way of captivating you deep down into your soul. Pulling something out of you that at times you forget you still had. I think of how much my life has changed and yet, I find myself so in touch with the past. How things from our present find ways to remind us of things from years prior.

Its when I think of the past that it reminds of me of the dress. The last dress I purchased that held so much promise of color and new beginnings. How the colors so different found a way to compliment each other. I think of the last moments I wore that dress, and how after so many years the image of that dress never seems to escape me. It continues to remind me of a halfway point. The point between here and there, never fully grasping the concept of being home. Home was where I was suppose to want to be, but being in between here and there I never understood. It took a while to get myself to pick up the dress and find it a home. Because keeping it stationary meant that it would last forever in that in-between places. That seeing it day after day and how it would just hang there for the world to see. Hang there for me to one day come to conclusion that this was home again. It was my own fear of returning home and counting my losses. My own fear of seeing my life for what it was, and not some in-between place journey but coming home to pick at my scabs and start over. The dress it just hung there, waiting, patiently to be put away.

It’s been months since I’ve put the dress away. Months since I’ve worn and seen the dress. Still the image of the dress hanging between rooms, doesn’t seem to escape me. It sits waiting patiently to be put away. I think of it as the last of the decades of leaving. The last escape of this godforsaken town. But still even months after it’s been put away, I can still see it. I see the blue, green, and navy. I see the image of the dress just swaying back and forth with the life surrounding it. I see how much I loved that dress when I purchased it, I see how I couldn’t wait to never see it again.

Art has a funny way of imitating life. I can sit and stare at a painting of a dress hanging between the chaos of New York, and still think of that dress. How the dress just hung in-between here and there. How much I wished for the dress to be leaving to far off distant places and instead watched it be buried to the back of the closet. Still that image beckons to me, haunts me. I watch the life of the dress disappear into the dark mysteries of life. Waiting, patiently for the day to reappear. Waiting for the day to be brought back to life. I just can’t bring myself to wear that dress but its memory still haunts my mind from time to time. On the days when I feel like I am in-between places. I’ll never know where I am going but I know eventually I will leave this place and with me that dress will join me. Maybe soon.

But still it waits.

Patiently.

4/14/2012

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