PreludeA Chapter by MattVoscinar
I tried to tie the noose, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.
March first had never been so cold, at least as far as I could remember. I wanted to plant a garden; I had a fixation with it. The idea of creating something beautiful and lively had always rendered me breathless. But I had to wait. Spring had forgotten us and Death wore brown that year.
I lived with my mother in a nice, humble house. I know everyone that worked on it. They always told me what was wrong with it and who made the mistake. I was young then; I couldn’t care less if the drywall was done wrong, or that the tiles were uneven, I just wanted was a roof to sleep under and someone there to love me. I had both, which was a lot more than I ever deserved.
That’s the cute part about my younger years. I had everything in my grasp to sustain a comfortable and fruitful life, but I asked for more. I know I’m not the only one afflicted by this mindset, the world’s got it. I just chastise myself for making the same mistake.
I never had it hard, despite my constant melancholy that conveyed otherwise. I was often asked: What do you have to be stressed out about? How can you be so selfish? There are people worse off than you, you know?
The beauty of it was I was asking myself the same questions.
The town I grew up in was obscenely small. There were two gas stations and a Cuban restaurant that sat on the only highway that ran through it. If someone died, the town knew in a matter of hours. It was like a large, dysfunctional family.
I would often take my road to a small bridge over a canal that never held any water. I heard stories of neighborhood kids riding small boats through it. I walked. That road was a testament to time; if you took it from beginning to end, you could watch it age underneath your feet.
I lived on a large patch of land my grandfather owned. My house sat on five acres, as did my uncle’s. My grandfather’s sat on eighty. We lived in the country, surrounded by endless pastures and woods. Every time I stepped outside, dogs lost in the distance began to bark. I knew it was coincidence, but a part of me wondered if they were asking why I was there. I never answered. They kept barking.
© 2010 MattVoscinar
Added on July 16, 2010
Last Updated on July 16, 2010
AboutI'm a nineteen year old poet/hip hop artist who is quite active in the Central Florida scene. I'm currently attending college to major in English/Secondary Education. more..
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