They’re in my bedroom They’re on my front lawn I’m in another state And something tells me this
God help me now
Replacing it with something else
With machines and things
Demolishing my sense of self
And talking bout their wives and kids
To contemplate innocence
Is just part of the price to exist
Moving along without it
Barely thinking about it
People can forge such strong connections with places. They can live in our hearts and our memories nearly as vividly as people. They are containers for our experiences, and incubators for our emotions. I found out this past week that a house I once shared with some friends has been demolished. I hadn’t seen it in a very long time, in fact I was a bit surprised that it hadn’t been torn down long ago, along with the rest of the student housing development in which it was situated. It was the sort of crusty old place that had seriously been through the wars. It was surely filled with asbestos and mold, and I don’t want to know what else, but I didn’t really mind because I was too young to turn my nose up at such conditions. We filled it with friends and lovers and it was as alive as a place could be. My life isn’t any different now that it’s gone. After all, for me it has only existed as a memory for the past six years anyway. But knowing it is gone twists me up just a little bit. It is a reminder of the way the days and weeks slowly turn over, taking with them people and places as they go. Those people and places are part of the price we pay just for being here. We get attached. They go away. They also make the whole thing worth it, so I suppose it is a price that I’ll reluctantly pay.
They’re in my bedroom
They’re on my front lawn
I’m in another state
And something tells me this
Here’s hoping your Monday doesn’t totally suck.