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There’s Always A Need To Disguise The Non-beauty

While our future is wide open and its misdirection waves a still hazy but tangible wand, I feel there’s no soundtrack soothingly compelling enough to accompany yet another divergence, story of my life and how it keeps presenting itself to me, but the one that continues to wrap my mind around all its contradictory concepts like weirdly warm yet winter, to find some answers in their thrown off balance, proven short-lived because the snow this week made up for a completely different narrative than envisioned. Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware of my megalomaniac aptitude in thinking that my determination in constructing the perfect chicken coop – perfect for Les Pierres that is, which shifts the standard somewhat as there’s always a need to disguise the non-beauty that usually relates to the neighbors Woesome Wall – is somehow directly connected to the bulldozing on display hundreds of miles away, probably already done and dusted, with the only demonstrable link being a photograph send by my sister, depicting the demolition of our parental home, to make room for something and someone new.

What once was and what has not yet come to fruition share a covenant in being absent from the present, a valuable shortcoming when you are as addicted to intertwinement as I prove myself to be time and time again, because it allows me to breathe, nevertheless. Sad for the palpable need of dismantling for the sake of prosperity, I did some research online about the plans for my old neighborhood after this deconstruction, only to run into an interview with a local administrator, who referred to the street of my youth by delineating these ‘tiny old houses’, with their crumbling walls yearning for his vision, his idea of innovation and renewed whatever. 

My sister expressed her gratitude that my mother does not have to witness the demise of our once home, because in her mind she links that place to where my mother continues to dwell, despite any actual reality, but I feel equally reassured by the assumption that her afterlife knows where I’ll be, no matter what. Because these tiny old houses we’ve put our trust in hold on to their transposed promises to protect us: even in our too warm winters snow will fall, melt and fall again.

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