Fifteen to six click on my hand, as Proxy plays through my earphone jacks.This place feels so familiar, almost forcefully so. Yet it seems to have changed since the last time I step foot on it.
I remember, fairly so, my last encounter with Barnes park. I was nineteen, recently arrived, bored to death and certainly not calm. I had spent the last few months going from house to house, living off of the charity of family members I did not know, and regretting coming to this place and leaving everyone I knew behind. There is a pool to my right. That, I remember. I drained my energy there, and hoped that it would cleanse my mind and heal my wounds. It occupied my time, but trying to remember now, I can barely recall anything specific about my time swimming here. How long was I coming here for? How much did it cost to get in? Was it always empty, or busy? I move on. Today is not the day to deal with that.
To my surprise, there is a long road that goes around the park, and takes you to a quiet area, surrounded by trees and a small river alongside it. There are several benches throughout the side road, and trees to give shade from every angle. I sit down. Light up a cigarette, and listen. Resist is playing on the playlist, which feels perfect at this time. as the song climaxes the sun hides behind flocks of clouds, drifting west. There's a breeze making every plant dance, ever so slightly, making my sketchbook vibrate on my lap as I try to accomplish my goal. Some birds chirp arrhythmically, or at least at a rhythm I can't perceive, near me. It might be that rain is coming our way.
It's suddenly six thirty. I spent the last forty minutes writing and drawing, zoned out. I can't remember what I was writing anymore, and so I look down at my notes, confused at the whole page I wrote. It suddenly hit me, why the park seemed so different. Somehow my notes transitioned from a log, to a memoir. And as I finish reading them, I realize, this place hasn't changed. I have.
I remember, fairly so, my last encounter with Barnes park. I was nineteen, recently arrived, bored to death and certainly not calm. I had spent the last few months going from house to house, living off of the charity of family members I did not know, and regretting coming to this place and leaving everyone I knew behind. There is a pool to my right. That, I remember. I drained my energy there, and hoped that it would cleanse my mind and heal my wounds. It occupied my time, but trying to remember now, I can barely recall anything specific about my time swimming here. How long was I coming here for? How much did it cost to get in? Was it always empty, or busy? I move on. Today is not the day to deal with that.
To my surprise, there is a long road that goes around the park, and takes you to a quiet area, surrounded by trees and a small river alongside it. There are several benches throughout the side road, and trees to give shade from every angle. I sit down. Light up a cigarette, and listen. Resist is playing on the playlist, which feels perfect at this time. as the song climaxes the sun hides behind flocks of clouds, drifting west. There's a breeze making every plant dance, ever so slightly, making my sketchbook vibrate on my lap as I try to accomplish my goal. Some birds chirp arrhythmically, or at least at a rhythm I can't perceive, near me. It might be that rain is coming our way.
It's suddenly six thirty. I spent the last forty minutes writing and drawing, zoned out. I can't remember what I was writing anymore, and so I look down at my notes, confused at the whole page I wrote. It suddenly hit me, why the park seemed so different. Somehow my notes transitioned from a log, to a memoir. And as I finish reading them, I realize, this place hasn't changed. I have.
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