Home

I've walked these roads before.
These tired, old, dead end roads.
Dead end roads filled with houses, once flourishing in hopes of a brighter future and promising lives, lost now somewhere in the cries of unplanned children and curses for nowhere jobs that keep the collectors at bay.
Houses that were such a staple of my youth.
Houses where I was schooled in the ways of the world, and where innocence no doubtedly was lost, now occupied by complete strangers.
But I know those walls and those rooms.
I know their stories well, and believe no one could tell it better than I.
Teenage love games, and searching for answers in the bottom of tequilla bottles; chasing the worm like some drunk madman chasing the memory of his ill-fated marriage through back alleys and on lonely street corners.
Each turn, each stretch of weathered pavement, brings me back to a time now seemingly lost. For as familiar as it all is, this is no longer the town of my youth.
My true nature at this moment is the 30 year old, still showing up at foorball parties and pep rallies, clinging to a time when nothing mattered and everything was to gain.
But yet at the same time I find a strange solace in knowing these streets and houses no longer know me, that I can walk them in complete anonymity, undetected. Unsuspected.
I am home, and yet this is the most foreign land I have come across in all my travels.