Nestled between the sawmills and the smokestacks are the homes and apartment complexes that shelter us—the former tools of industry.

Some of these remnants get more attention than others.

Some places might still even be described as charming.

People still have pride in their materialism. People still garden, paint, and fix their fences. We all keep up with the Joneses in our own way.

To me, it all feels like a pantomime; A performance of a bygone age.
But I suppose if it keeps them busy.

Who am I to find fault?

Their pastiche of busyness doesn’t bother me much.

That is, if I don’t think about it too much...

 

So I try not to think about it too much...

 

But some things aren’t as easy to not think about.

Some things force the mind in their direction.

Some things claw at your very essence.

I wonder what this place sounded like when the sawmills were running. Did the buzzing persist all day?

Was there always a low hum or din blanketing the air?

Could you block it out? Did people just get used to the noise?

Did the buzz claw at their very essence?

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I write Strange tales. 

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