november 6, 2017
Mar. 8th, 2021 02:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pomegranitemilksomewhere else you and i were best friends.
we would’ve grown up in a part of town that had graffiti and gaming cafes and tree lined walkways to make the thursday night walk home less daunting. the roads would be uneven with potholes because the city didn’t want to pay for repaving, and the cars would all rock back and forth as if unsure of where they were going. we would watch them tip and lean while sitting on the sidewalk, sipping on artificially peach flavored drinks and watching the butcher hang duck and chicken in the windows of their shops with hooks and wires. the people, in their cars and bikes, would rattle in front of us, all attending to lives busier than ours, and we would feel like kids caught on hooks, like the birds, waiting to grow up, waiting to fly away.
there's a bridge in that town. a bridge that’s like waking up, as if once that bridge is crossed the dream is stuck as a dream.
i live in hypotheticals—because between the words ‘what’ and ‘if’ is a small space where reality blends with imagination. it’s just my way of entertaining the different way i could’ve come about, the way i almost came about. reality tends to stray away from what we dream and the alternative universes we believe in, though.
we would’ve grown up in a part of town that had graffiti and gaming cafes and tree lined walkways to make the thursday night walk home less daunting. the roads would be uneven with potholes because the city didn’t want to pay for repaving, and the cars would all rock back and forth as if unsure of where they were going. we would watch them tip and lean while sitting on the sidewalk, sipping on artificially peach flavored drinks and watching the butcher hang duck and chicken in the windows of their shops with hooks and wires. the people, in their cars and bikes, would rattle in front of us, all attending to lives busier than ours, and we would feel like kids caught on hooks, like the birds, waiting to grow up, waiting to fly away.
there's a bridge in that town. a bridge that’s like waking up, as if once that bridge is crossed the dream is stuck as a dream.
i live in hypotheticals—because between the words ‘what’ and ‘if’ is a small space where reality blends with imagination. it’s just my way of entertaining the different way i could’ve come about, the way i almost came about. reality tends to stray away from what we dream and the alternative universes we believe in, though.
in reality, i grew up in a part of town swallowed by trees and mosquitoes in a small house away from civilization with only phantoms of people i wish i could open the window and talk to at night. new england towns are on the other side of the world where i almost grew up. instead of graffiti and gaming cafes, there’s town commons and churches and stone walls separating your home from mine. on thursday nights the people drive home from work because just your feet aren’t enough to get you anywhere here. a mess of misconstrued grids, the roads are all dirt. nobody cares enough this far out in the woods. grandmothers hang flower pots of chrysanthemums and bleeding hearts on little wire hooks during the spring because they grow well. sometimes the people sit on their porches and think about whether they will too.
there are no bridges in the neighborhood i grew up in, as if it’s a promise that it isn’t a dream and that there’s no need to bring your head down from the clouds.
when i was younger i used to daydream of what could have been as i stared at photographs of a town i almost grew up in, a town with graffiti and gaming cafes and you. it’s not awful, this new england town. the leaves turn orange and red before they turn brown and you can see the little dipper at night. it’s a town good for daydreaming and wondering about alternative universes. it’s a town people can see themselves growing old in.
it’s nice—the neighborhood i grew up in. it is. it’s just that a neighborhood with you would’ve been nicer.
