Since I was 12 I would find them, lonely,
staring, and empty. A vast canvas of forgotten times still lurking in their
crumbling shadows. Starving for attention that will never come yet content with
the solitude that has found them. They speak to me, telling me of the things
they have seen, the harsh winters they have endured. Rain pitter-patters on
the rusty metal and the wood beams swell and groan under the weight of
disregard and a roof riddled with holes. I want to reach out and tell them not
to give up, but I know I cant, preservation is merely postponement, the
inevitable always comes. Though abandoned and forgotten, they do not hate,
though slowly fading away into a past not to be remembered, they do not strive
for a vigil. Humble fading entities, with only the raccoons and mice to keep
them company on their journey into the sunset. Sit a spell in one of their
forgotten chambers and you will hear them speak. I cannot hope to change what I
know is to happen, the transformation from a loved homestead, to a shell of a
former life, to a pile of rubble is as natural as our own destiny. My only hope
is that I can somehow learn and relate to them, that I might gain an
understanding of my own existence through the passing of theirs.
