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| Today I visited one of my favorite places after going on my break between shifts at work. Granted it isn�t the quietest or the most picturesque of scenes, but it is a nice view, and there�s no one around to pester me so I can think. I�ll often stop there on occasion after a shift when I want to be alone, or when I want a tranquil place to have my lunch on days that I have to work a double. Every time I go, I park in the same exact spot, and walk across towards the fence that blocks off the grass from the steep rock quarry. Once in a while I�ll look over the edge and question if I could climb it down since there seems to be perfect hand and foot holds the entire way down. Nevertheless, I abandon the idea and take my usual seat in the plush grass as I zip up my grey hoodie against the slight chill in the air, and allow the sun to warm my back. Usually I sit there, watching cars pass below on the highway, imagining the places that they were all traveling to as they disappear from my site and into the hills. Each time that I go, the hills have become greener than the time before as spring re-flourishes them, and I try to picture what they will look like when autumn works her magic. Towards the north-west appears to be a small separate section of the suburbs. The majority of the buildings are white-including a chapel whose grey peaks remind me of a church at the center of an old colonial town. A large brick building about three stories high stands alone and I picture it being a school for young sprats who sit listening attentively to their teacher�but that is only a dream since quaint schools like this don�t exist these days. To my left, near the highway, is a cemetery that is segregated by a set of rail tracks. Usually the cemetery is void of any life, but today I watched as a long line of cars piled in and stopped near a temporary tent that shaded a freshly dug grave that was still uninhibited at the moment. After only fifteen or so minutes, the grave was no longer empty as the people filed back into their cars one by one and left. I wondered as I watched each car exit the lot if any of them would ever return to pay a visit, or if their next visit would be to become a resident. Perhaps it was a morbid thought, but I realized that cemeteries aren�t to remember the deceased by, but to bury them in hopes of forgetting their existence. The very reason why the phrase, �bury the past,� was coined�people bury things, events, thoughts, and one another to forget them� As the last car left the cemetery, I thought for a moment about a family that I had read of recently�a mother and her two children were murdered in a quiet town, and no one knew why or the details of it. The question if it was random was asked, and that thought literally made me sick. How could a murder so cruel be random? Did someone seriously just walk by the house and suddenly decide to kill the family that lived there with no premeditation of the crime at all? I know the world is f*ed these days, but I can�t believe something like that was random�then again, perhaps it was that random, and all faith in the human race should be removed�I can only pray that the family won�t simply be buried and forgotten. That someone, somewhere, will remember them and will look to find them justice� |
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