I’ve thought about writing this post but just haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I don’t know what makes me more emotional and sensitive than the people around me. It seems like the older I get, the less inclined I am to talk about it because i’ve realized that many people won’t get it so I just keep these things to myself. Writing has kind of lost it’s thrill because it all seems so pointless, I guess. Maybe it’s a phase i’m going through but i’d rather just be quiet and feel.
This neighborhood didn’t look like this when my grandparents lived here. It was really clean and everyone took a lot of pride in their yards, especially my grandparents. The chestnut tree by the fence is gone. That patch of dead grass near the pickup is where my grandpa’s flower garden used to be. He put that basketball hoop in. His grass was plush and green. The back porch wasn’t closed off, it was screened. There were bushes all along the house. Holly bushes. There used to be a stone and gravel walkway leading up to the front porch. That’s where i’d pick weeds for my grandma for money to go to the drug store and buy bubbles, sidewalk chalk, and jump ropes. The tree in the front yard that my grandpa planted was hacked down. The azalea bushes are gone. But just standing there and seeing it in ruins as it was, I could still imagine how it once looked and all of the memories I had there. The sound of the cars going down the highway…… I could imagine the wind chimes clanging while sitting on that front porch with my grandma, watching the cars go by on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Ugh. I can’t. Why am I like this.
I can’t get the video to load. Fuck it. I’m not feeling it anyway. Gonna keep cleaning and enjoy the rest of my book, tonight.