This chasm of disappointment holds crushed dreams and dead days; haunting sounds of tears reverberate through the dusty, lifeless amusements. Dried mud shelters a ticket to this graveyard which has been discarded- like the place, it is forgotten and futile. The surrounding trees sing the songs of childhood cries and melancholy mothers. The sordid smell of horror and stress as a father loses his child to the monster who carries hundreds to elation, still hangs in the air like a warning sign. The beaten ground has sacrificed herself to our indifferent society. The quietness lingers, muffling the rest of the world.
A man has found solace in this place- his cardboard bed upgraded to metal. He picks at the sallow skin around his fingers, the dirt encased in the material he calls clothes, and rearranges what he has left of his life which he can control- a pillow, a cup, a single sweet wrapper. The man’s eyes are glazed with a hopelessness that only comes from years of brutal optimism met with striking pain- the world which treats some with respect has spat him out all chewed up and broken. But, like me, this man has found a place free from judgement, uncontrolled by society. We belong in this forgotten place because we, this man and I, want to forget.
Peace embeds itself in everything here, and all the broken things crying in pain are silenced. I can still feel the presence of people who passed through this childhood rite of passage, weathered with the fleeting touch of time. A comfortable solitude attracts lost individuals- the cracks aren’t fixed here, they don’t matter- a broken thing can be a beautiful thing. There is no sound to distract, no judgement to detract- I can be alone with the leftover laughter and neglected rides; an exquisite damaged family of paint-licked metal and over-excitement.
Though desolation resides, I find beauty in the wreckage. Here I can think, here I can write.