I was on top of that hill, again. The small man made hill that held our man made machines was mowed over last year and then re-constituted with supporting retaining walls and newly planted growth that seemed to embrace the loose fill dirt of the hill's banks. I was at the edge looking out over the brown buildings with their dull dim amber lights glowing and guiding its patrons. The roofs, of ancient construction, were still flat and uneven holding pools of stagnant water. For a time, I just sat in my spot on the new hill that was built over the old hill that was in front of the new road that was built over the old road which leads to those crystallized, untouched, brown buildings with their aging trees and tired faces. The elevation at the top was enticing enough but as I took each step to descend, the familiarity of the solid ground was stomach turning. Now walking under the chipped wood eves and the foggy lit lanterns at my shoulders, my shoes met the smooth hard pavement and gave it a friendly hug and kiss as each foot propelled me forward to the past. With my head now on the ground my face was filled with crushing frustration. This was nothing like my airy hill that held my memories of shaded trees and flashes of familiar, worn, faces. I was now powerless in my chair as the cement room began to fill with pools of past peers, I quickly drowned in my own nostalgia. Quick stinging smiles met my motionless face and I did nothing to return them to their senders. No ones words could hold my attention, only past pictures ran out of order through my kicking and swimming brain.
I went for the door when my time was up. I did my best to stand it but decided never to return.
These things I carried here belong on a shelf now- to be dusted and admired from a far. They are things that a hill can not hold and a tree can not grow, things that would cloud all future attempts to make it here.
And with that I go.