"It's ironic...to end not knowing how, just as you don't know how you began" - Dmitri
Oh if the walls could speak
It's easy to understand why we mourn for those we lost, fallen brothers and sisters we've spent a lifetime becoming familiar with. It's a drastic change that no mortal is comfortable with as we are beings of routine and any change, no matter how small, can cause the heart to palpate and skip a beat. We take solace in the fact that the memories we share of the fallen shall comfort us, even if it is a fleeting experience. The collective memory of many of the one. Where then does the mourning of a location take place? When a location has outlived it's usefulness in one groups life or is simply neglected and never visited again, it too dies does it not? Never to be incorporated into the daily lives and activities of a group of people, much like a fallen individual can no longer participate in the lives of others. The collective memory of the one of the many. Where memories go to die when those who have shared them no longer return.
Even as I stand here I know my presence alone can not revive this place. I'm still surprised to find it still standing defiantly against time. This abandoned train depot for a factory that no longer exists used to hold many gatherings of me and my friends. It was found long before I had joined my friends, supposedly back when they were still young, about 10 years old. The only other occupants would be the occasional homeless caravan passing through or one or two gang members leaving their mark on the walls. Beyond that it felt nothing short of a home away from home. I can still hear the laughter and music echoing against the rusted ceiling. The upstairs office door is still in a broken state, I'd imagine still in the same we left it many years ago. A few trinkets still litter the ground, soda bottles and cans, the mattresses are still surprisingly here. Truly a shell of it's former self, even if that former self was still much the same as it is now. It just doesn't have us anymore. A true graveyard of cherished memories. It may not be the once proud hub of social outcasts, but I love it all the same, this marvelous ruin. I may never come back but it's good to know that the possibility is still there. Hopefully it will stand for a few more years, until my children, if I have any, can come to appreciate it. To know where I got my start.
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