(no subject)

[chaneekwa]

i walk up and down the streets of worcester and never cease to be amazed by the number of empty faces that can exist in a single concentrated area. most of these people have lifetimes ahead of them. and yet they sit on cornerstones and look at broken buildings that remind them of a past that never was, that never will be. they feed off of one another: the people, the buildings, the dying trees. all broken, all lost in some sea of regret or retreat. the city thrives off of this. for it is a city broken by years of misuse. and though we (the students, the intellectuals come to save this poor establishment) strive so hard to preserve its beauty, its ethnicity; we fail to realize that the dirt makes worcester. worcester is the dirt. and, in a way, that is its beauty. and the girl who sits outside of taco bell, smoking the last cigarette to touch her lips until her next payday, is surprisingly content with her surroundings. the rusty lamp, the broken bottle, the blood stained hoodie covering the only possession she can truly call her own. these things are all she knows. and we can dress her like a princess. we can cut her greasy hair and wash the grit from beneath her pink-colored nails. but she will always be the dirt. she will always look back at those broken buildings and feel their pain. because it is her pain. because she knows what it means to be needed. and not just as some emotional or psychological support. but because sometimes we are all each other has. and we cling to one another. just like worcester clings to its unshaven streets and the empty faces and the dirt. sometimes i walk up and down the streets of worcester and beg to feel the way those empty faces do. to exist in that single concentrated place.

but only sometimes. other times it is just pretty scary :(