I think, I liked my old house better.
Our old house was leaky, rotten and badly insulated; and almost all of my best memories are in there.
We had to move out for it to be torn down when I was four, and now we live in a giant, modern concrete block; we have big TV's and a modern kitchen with all the mod cons; we have everything we should ever want or need.
But I hate the way everything is about bigger these days, we just got a new TV because my mom "wanted a bigger screen". That's it, end of reasoning, poof.
I look at my room, my house, and my life; and just see another plastic person living in another cardboard dolls house.
I liked the smallness of our old house, the way you could only have four people sitting at the dining table at one time, the way all out book shelves were crammed together to all fit.
I liked my old room, it was small, early ninetys style: granny wallpaper and a wearing, woven carpet, it had a big, ugly eighties-style closet built into the wall and rattely windows.
I can see my life, I think, if I had grown up there.
A small life filled with small, beautiful things,
there would never be enough room for big sleep-overs,
and everything would be bursting out and messy;
a house filled with music, art and light.
My parents are all ways going on about how this new "american image" shoved at us by the media is turning our world into one, big, ugly mall; and while this would be true, look at the way we live?
My grades are never good enough, I don't work hard enough; why should I work hard just to get what we call "good money" and a "good house"?
Would they be this way if we had stayed?
And it's true, I do like to exaggerate, but all I see is a single streak of grey, stretching off into the distance. No different shades, just the dullest grey one could could imagine, going on,
forever.
Our identities shouldn't be where we come from, but these days it's all I have.
And looking at those fading photographs, I'll always be asking: "what if?'
Our old house was leaky, rotten and badly insulated; and almost all of my best memories are in there.
We had to move out for it to be torn down when I was four, and now we live in a giant, modern concrete block; we have big TV's and a modern kitchen with all the mod cons; we have everything we should ever want or need.
But I hate the way everything is about bigger these days, we just got a new TV because my mom "wanted a bigger screen". That's it, end of reasoning, poof.
I look at my room, my house, and my life; and just see another plastic person living in another cardboard dolls house.
I liked the smallness of our old house, the way you could only have four people sitting at the dining table at one time, the way all out book shelves were crammed together to all fit.
I liked my old room, it was small, early ninetys style: granny wallpaper and a wearing, woven carpet, it had a big, ugly eighties-style closet built into the wall and rattely windows.
I can see my life, I think, if I had grown up there.
A small life filled with small, beautiful things,
there would never be enough room for big sleep-overs,
and everything would be bursting out and messy;
a house filled with music, art and light.
My parents are all ways going on about how this new "american image" shoved at us by the media is turning our world into one, big, ugly mall; and while this would be true, look at the way we live?
My grades are never good enough, I don't work hard enough; why should I work hard just to get what we call "good money" and a "good house"?
Would they be this way if we had stayed?
And it's true, I do like to exaggerate, but all I see is a single streak of grey, stretching off into the distance. No different shades, just the dullest grey one could could imagine, going on,
forever.
Our identities shouldn't be where we come from, but these days it's all I have.
And looking at those fading photographs, I'll always be asking: "what if?'
No comments:
Post a Comment