ION

ION

queenmogar:

RAISE UR HAND IF PEOPLE EVER MISTAKEN U FOR BEING TOO YOUNG OR TOO OLD

at age 19, just wearing formal wear made me look like a teacher in highschool

(via its-not-my-funeral-suit)

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homework intensive, but almost done. check my blog for an essay to pass the time, or not. not trying to be all passive aggressive or something but you should read my essay on my blog, you know, because I put a lot of work into it. I would really appreciate it if you read my essay, hell you like my shit I’ll like your work of ‘something’. 

Memoir of the Window

What is a window through time, is it a memory on a page? Is it of a building, a structure, a home of dear close ones? It must be a place far away, long enough to watch a scenic blur in a metal box. You had awakened from a sleepy daze into the darkness. There is no concern though, for the destination has already been achieved. Looking towards a warm lit home and a soft comfort that is so trusting. I could already feel the bed, even though there has already been some sleep, legs weep for a bit of relaxing.

Upon awakening, people of familiarity discuss the plans of the day. Cereal arrives on tables, served with half and half. A woman, carrying the conversation, outlines pleasant notions and options. The lady brings forth ideas of parks to the east, filled with beasts and water that seems to boil on its own. Yet the stone on the land seems to be yellow. A man, who usually emits fatherhood, in a fashion, seems to be now on the other end, agrees with the woman but interjects with possibilities of staying there with her. People flock to the room and enter into the current discussion, young ones (though not too old) plot battle plans to contrast with older versions of the plan. Some want to stay and others want to just go, as they wander about the dining area. A lot of aggression to move, to “get going” is the push. Agreements made and keys were handed.

Transportation brought us toward a store. The store seems to be the only one in town, yet no one was around. Doors open to reveal clothes, food, and other general goods. Yet that was not all, a stairway leads to the unimaginable. Toys stocked in a room under the store. It was its own store. There were car sets that have never been seen; water weaponry that can fortify; nick and nack are the best of friends here; and entertainment was attainable. Wallets were raided for their loot. Materialism was at an all-time high. Demand was the only pleasure for that moment and it felt like a buffet for the bored. These aisles where new things lay for discovery, even the second go around held surprises. Though many had their picks, a hydro-pistol was chosen. Walking out those doors felt like leaving sanctum.

Thoughts of this place, a little town called Rigby brings many memories. Not much is known about the place, the town has spirit, and the man who invented the television was born here. Many old western cow folk reside here, built their lives here, and ended up being rested here. I thought to myself, what wonders lived in this place. I felt sadness, for this was my childhood home. I took a picture, hoping to bring back what I once cared for the most. Resurrection was in my mind, but I found none.

For the home, that house my father, my father’s mother, and her father also made so alive; I thought could never be so cold, so empty. I’ve seen the mess of an abandon home, not caused by people, but the lack of the people. What I once knew as arts and crafts seems to be only a figure just there. The lights that I thought were golden emitted only enough to see the sadness. On top of it all the warmth I felt in the beginning, was there no more. I miss the moments I had in that place, where I created my own childhood. I clean the place of all value of any sort. My brothers concern themselves with items of true worth; I grab only things that reminded me of our grandparents. I keep only that reminds me of the place, but none of those items brought back that warmth.

As we packed our belongings from the place into the car, I thought hard on how different the past and present is. It seems as though the home was a being of its own, inviting and loving in all its sorts. I now realized how dead wrong I was. I don’t blame myself for misinterpretation of my own feelings, I was a child anyway. This became a whole new lesson for me, an understanding of love and where it resides. Like many say about religion, the building isn’t of God, the people are. What fills the place was a caring mother and father, people who glowed of personality that can be felt as if it was some kind of fire. Comfort can only be had through others, without them, a house is just a place. Though I do remember, I took this picture four years after my grandmothers passing. I took a picture of the house so I can see it as I did then, not as picture of what was happening now. It acts as sort of a window through time, to remind me on paper of the people I loved.

image

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