Five years of stalking artists and reading stories, and not once did I think to post myself.
I've collected a few stories and poems that aren't too personal and some that are and posted them.
What else could have prompted this except a revisit to my hometown? I live several miles south of where I spent my youth, and I despair at returning home to the dead mill town for any occasion. There is something decidedly unsettling about seeing the storefronts of my childhood closed, many burnt for the insurance money. I feel as though those buildings are a piece of me that has been charred and stripped of any meaning. Memories I myself have forgotten were waiting anxiously for me to see these locations and be conjured up....without the promptings of these lost buildings will I ever remember those moments?
What if the odd, paranormal feeling I get from returning home is simply because I myself have changed in some fundamental way, but the town has only changed in cosmetics? Running down the train tracks, kissing girls behind the school, building forts in the woods...that child is long gone, killed when the adult I am now emerged from its body like a cocoon. A more serious, less frivolous, sensible adult.
I am no longer in sync with this town. It is 1:30AM, and I'm sitting in my old bedroom, the memories of childhood strangling me and I'm expected to sleep here? I'm expected to close my eyes when the child I used to be all but stands at my bedside?
I am no longer in sync with this town, and that may be something to grieve. When I ran parallel with this town nothing could touch me. I was king of my domain, the prince of hide and go seek and the bane of fish in the creek. I had nothing but time and the willingness to make the most of life. I climbed mountains and dirt piles alike, and my stuffed animals could talk to me.
I am no longer in sync with this town, and maybe I should aspire to be. I have less than 30 hours before I leave for what I now call home.
I haven't cried since my grandmother died 10 years ago.