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Damp
Walking home in the rain is nice, because it wasn't cold rain, it was the kind of clear, fresh rain that you get in Spring. So I guess it must be Spring. The blossom on the trees gives it away a bit though. I love blossom, it reminds me of the tall trees at primary school, although the don’t seem so tall now. Primary school, it was the only place in my life that I have ever had such little responsibility. I felt free at primary school. I wasn't tied to friends, I was tied to playing, to running around the meadow burying fur cones. And handstands up the hill. And laughing at little things like the way the pond insects swam on top of the water like that. It was all about innocence. Trotting along, too and from school, swinging your little purple book bags that say “St. Mary’s Primary School” on the front. The only time you cried was because you got a graze on your knee, or you trapped your finger in a door. “I’m bleeeeding. It’s red. I don’t like it. It hurts.” I whimper.
And now the only people I see bleeding are the people who slit their wrists in the toilets at my school. Who drown in a pool of their own blood, trying to find “peace”.
My parents used to warn me about “Big School”. The drug dealers who hung around, the smokers that slump just outside the gate trying to suck back on something “cool”, trying to suck back on something that will leave them sucking-back for the rest of their peer driven lives. I sigh as I walk pass, becoming a passive smoker without the permission of my lungs or of my brain. I splutter, exaggerating, so maybe they might take notice, maybe they might see that soon this will not be their own decision, it will be the decision of their nicotine craving self.
I live in a quaint little town. “One of Essex’s top 10 towns.” I adore where I live for it’s history and it’s charming little market. It’s curious lanes with old buildings and sense of “How lovely” hiding behind every oak door.
Could you believe that my school is in this very town I speak of? Could you believe that my town is one of the best places to live in Essex (according to the newspapers) ? I breathe in the soft air and open my eyes as I wander along the grass of our park, to see these kids sitting on the park bench stoned out of their minds, drunken and bewildered. It pains me to see that.
But what pains me even more is that the newspapers are right ; “Saffron Walden -is- one of the best places to live.” I feel sad to know people living elsewhere, in poor quality housing, with no space for themselves or even their minds to breathe. With rapists and murders hanging around every street side and alley way. We all feel paranoid sometimes, but I couldn’t imagine being afraid of walking out of my front door, or afraid to keep my phone on the hook for fear of violent messages. I feel privileged to live in my quaint little town with drug dealers, I suppose it’s just something we all have to live with. At the moment I feel like life is just something we all have to live with.
My face and clothes are dry now, but I still feel damp inside, like the peeling wallpaper of the poor quality housing. Like the wall that has been drinking to much filthy water up through its foundations. I fear for people who’s lives are rotting from the outside, you can see it. People who’s lives are probably rotting from the inside too. They are rotting. I am rotting. The world is rotting. We are sucking out all of it’s natural wonderment. We suck like we drag back on that cigarette, to keep our minds at ease, at rest. But what happens when only a cigarette butt remains? Will we still crave more and more? Will we keep dragging back until the packet is empty? So we shall trundle down to our local store and buy another...But the world doesn’t work like that. There’s never another packet of rainforests behind the counter, there’s never another packet of coral reefs....
Walking home in the rain is nice, because it wasn't cold rain, it was the kind of clear, fresh rain that you get in Spring. So I guess it must be Spring. The blossom on the trees gives it away a bit though. I love blossom, it reminds me of the tall trees at primary school, although the don’t seem so tall now. Primary school, it was the only place in my life that I have ever had such little responsibility. I felt free at primary school. I wasn't tied to friends, I was tied to playing, to running around the meadow burying fur cones. And handstands up the hill. And laughing at little things like the way the pond insects swam on top of the water like that. It was all about innocence. Trotting along, too and from school, swinging your little purple book bags that say “St. Mary’s Primary School” on the front. The only time you cried was because you got a graze on your knee, or you trapped your finger in a door. “I’m bleeeeding. It’s red. I don’t like it. It hurts.” I whimper.
And now the only people I see bleeding are the people who slit their wrists in the toilets at my school. Who drown in a pool of their own blood, trying to find “peace”.
My parents used to warn me about “Big School”. The drug dealers who hung around, the smokers that slump just outside the gate trying to suck back on something “cool”, trying to suck back on something that will leave them sucking-back for the rest of their peer driven lives. I sigh as I walk pass, becoming a passive smoker without the permission of my lungs or of my brain. I splutter, exaggerating, so maybe they might take notice, maybe they might see that soon this will not be their own decision, it will be the decision of their nicotine craving self.
I live in a quaint little town. “One of Essex’s top 10 towns.” I adore where I live for it’s history and it’s charming little market. It’s curious lanes with old buildings and sense of “How lovely” hiding behind every oak door.
Could you believe that my school is in this very town I speak of? Could you believe that my town is one of the best places to live in Essex (according to the newspapers) ? I breathe in the soft air and open my eyes as I wander along the grass of our park, to see these kids sitting on the park bench stoned out of their minds, drunken and bewildered. It pains me to see that.
But what pains me even more is that the newspapers are right ; “Saffron Walden -is- one of the best places to live.” I feel sad to know people living elsewhere, in poor quality housing, with no space for themselves or even their minds to breathe. With rapists and murders hanging around every street side and alley way. We all feel paranoid sometimes, but I couldn’t imagine being afraid of walking out of my front door, or afraid to keep my phone on the hook for fear of violent messages. I feel privileged to live in my quaint little town with drug dealers, I suppose it’s just something we all have to live with. At the moment I feel like life is just something we all have to live with.
My face and clothes are dry now, but I still feel damp inside, like the peeling wallpaper of the poor quality housing. Like the wall that has been drinking to much filthy water up through its foundations. I fear for people who’s lives are rotting from the outside, you can see it. People who’s lives are probably rotting from the inside too. They are rotting. I am rotting. The world is rotting. We are sucking out all of it’s natural wonderment. We suck like we drag back on that cigarette, to keep our minds at ease, at rest. But what happens when only a cigarette butt remains? Will we still crave more and more? Will we keep dragging back until the packet is empty? So we shall trundle down to our local store and buy another...But the world doesn’t work like that. There’s never another packet of rainforests behind the counter, there’s never another packet of coral reefs....
Yeah, fantastic post, yet again. The phase from the first main paragraph to the second still hits me.
Damp
Walking home in the rain is nice, because it wasn't cold rain, it was the kind of clear, fresh rain that you get in Spring. So I guess it must be Spring. The blossom on the trees gives it away a bit though. I love blossom, it reminds me of the tall trees at primary school, although the don’t seem so tall now. Primary school, it was the only place in my life that I have ever had such little responsibility. I felt free at primary school. I wasn't tied to friends, I was tied to playing, to running around the meadow burying fur cones. And handstands up the hill. And laughing at little things like the way the pond insects swam on top of the water like that. It was all about innocence. Trotting along, too and from school, swinging your little purple book bags that say “St. Mary’s Primary School” on the front. The only time you cried was because you got a graze on your knee, or you trapped your finger in a door. “I’m bleeeeding. It’s red. I don’t like it. It hurts.” I whimper.
And now the only people I see bleeding are the people who slit their wrists in the toilets at my school. Who drown in a pool of their own blood, trying to find “peace”.
My parents used to warn me about “Big School”. The drug dealers who hung around, the smokers that slump just outside the gate trying to suck back on something “cool”, trying to suck back on something that will leave them sucking-back for the rest of their peer driven lives. I sigh as I walk pass, becoming a passive smoker without the permission of my lungs or of my brain. I splutter, exaggerating, so maybe they might take notice, maybe they might see that soon this will not be their own decision, it will be the decision of their nicotine craving self.
I live in a quaint little town. “One of Essex’s top 10 towns.” I adore where I live for it’s history and it’s charming little market. It’s curious lanes with old buildings and sense of “How lovely” hiding behind every oak door.
Could you believe that my school is in this very town I speak of? Could you believe that my town is one of the best places to live in Essex (according to the newspapers) ? I breathe in the soft air and open my eyes as I wander along the grass of our park, to see these kids sitting on the park bench stoned out of their minds, drunken and bewildered. It pains me to see that.
But what pains me even more is that the newspapers are right ; “Saffron Walden -is- one of the best places to live.” I feel sad to know people living elsewhere, in poor quality housing, with no space for themselves or even their minds to breathe. With rapists and murders hanging around every street side and alley way. We all feel paranoid sometimes, but I couldn’t imagine being afraid of walking out of my front door, or afraid to keep my phone on the hook for fear of violent messages. I feel privileged to live in my quaint little town with drug dealers, I suppose it’s just something we all have to live with. At the moment I feel like life is just something we all have to live with.
My face and clothes are dry now, but I still feel damp inside, like the peeling wallpaper of the poor quality housing. Like the wall that has been drinking to much filthy water up through its foundations. I fear for people who’s lives are rotting from the outside, you can see it. People who’s lives are probably rotting from the inside too. They are rotting. I am rotting. The world is rotting. We are sucking out all of it’s natural wonderment. We suck like we drag back on that cigarette, to keep our minds at ease, at rest. But what happens when only a cigarette butt remains? Will we still crave more and more? Will we keep dragging back until the packet is empty? So we shall trundle down to our local store and buy another...But the world doesn’t work like that. There’s never another packet of rainforests behind the counter, there’s never another packet of coral reefs....
Walking home in the rain is nice, because it wasn't cold rain, it was the kind of clear, fresh rain that you get in Spring. So I guess it must be Spring. The blossom on the trees gives it away a bit though. I love blossom, it reminds me of the tall trees at primary school, although the don’t seem so tall now. Primary school, it was the only place in my life that I have ever had such little responsibility. I felt free at primary school. I wasn't tied to friends, I was tied to playing, to running around the meadow burying fur cones. And handstands up the hill. And laughing at little things like the way the pond insects swam on top of the water like that. It was all about innocence. Trotting along, too and from school, swinging your little purple book bags that say “St. Mary’s Primary School” on the front. The only time you cried was because you got a graze on your knee, or you trapped your finger in a door. “I’m bleeeeding. It’s red. I don’t like it. It hurts.” I whimper.
And now the only people I see bleeding are the people who slit their wrists in the toilets at my school. Who drown in a pool of their own blood, trying to find “peace”.
My parents used to warn me about “Big School”. The drug dealers who hung around, the smokers that slump just outside the gate trying to suck back on something “cool”, trying to suck back on something that will leave them sucking-back for the rest of their peer driven lives. I sigh as I walk pass, becoming a passive smoker without the permission of my lungs or of my brain. I splutter, exaggerating, so maybe they might take notice, maybe they might see that soon this will not be their own decision, it will be the decision of their nicotine craving self.
I live in a quaint little town. “One of Essex’s top 10 towns.” I adore where I live for it’s history and it’s charming little market. It’s curious lanes with old buildings and sense of “How lovely” hiding behind every oak door.
Could you believe that my school is in this very town I speak of? Could you believe that my town is one of the best places to live in Essex (according to the newspapers) ? I breathe in the soft air and open my eyes as I wander along the grass of our park, to see these kids sitting on the park bench stoned out of their minds, drunken and bewildered. It pains me to see that.
But what pains me even more is that the newspapers are right ; “Saffron Walden -is- one of the best places to live.” I feel sad to know people living elsewhere, in poor quality housing, with no space for themselves or even their minds to breathe. With rapists and murders hanging around every street side and alley way. We all feel paranoid sometimes, but I couldn’t imagine being afraid of walking out of my front door, or afraid to keep my phone on the hook for fear of violent messages. I feel privileged to live in my quaint little town with drug dealers, I suppose it’s just something we all have to live with. At the moment I feel like life is just something we all have to live with.
My face and clothes are dry now, but I still feel damp inside, like the peeling wallpaper of the poor quality housing. Like the wall that has been drinking to much filthy water up through its foundations. I fear for people who’s lives are rotting from the outside, you can see it. People who’s lives are probably rotting from the inside too. They are rotting. I am rotting. The world is rotting. We are sucking out all of it’s natural wonderment. We suck like we drag back on that cigarette, to keep our minds at ease, at rest. But what happens when only a cigarette butt remains? Will we still crave more and more? Will we keep dragging back until the packet is empty? So we shall trundle down to our local store and buy another...But the world doesn’t work like that. There’s never another packet of rainforests behind the counter, there’s never another packet of coral reefs....