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The Boy Who Flew Away
The swing set creaked in the wind; well, more of a breeze really, but the fact is that it only moved a tiny bit, but then uttered sounds as if it was about to die. Squeaking guttural sounds that made my skin crawl and my heart thump.
The old park isn’t really up to much now. The decrepit climbing frame has more rust than paint on it, in spite of the latest community service chain gang’s efforts. They don’t understand that by simply painting over the rust, they are only wasting their own time. The paint will not stick to cracked, crumbling metal work that really should have been torn down a number of years ago. I sit down on the swing. It is the only useable seat and it groans under my weight. I brace myself to come tumbling to the ground, but the fall never happens, and I am impressed in spite of myself.
The silence in the park is the loudest noise in all the city. I think that’s why I like it here. The hustle and bustle of the city and all the people with their various thoughts and feelings and plans unsettle me. I don’t really understand why. I wish that I did. Then, maybe I would be able to deal with it without having to resort to… My mind trails off almost by itself. It won’t let me even think it, but I know that when the time comes, I will inevitably turn back to it again, just like I always do. It seems to have this inexplicable…
