My photos of my home are often quite bright and idyllic. Pictures can be deceiving. This article explores emotional connections to a place, and the dissonance between those feelings and the literal visual representation of the place.
My home is an ugly oblong-esque collection of bricks that gleam obtusely orange in the sunlight. It has been set on fire at least twice this year, and the hallway lights flicker as if commenting on the drudgery of their job. There is a mass of heaving bicycles at the bottom of the stairwell, dust settling down for a long sleep atop their frames.
The grass in the communal garden is shaved until it is almost bare by gardeners with roaring, fearsome machines. With the blades of grass go the tops of my mother’s roses, or anything else she chooses to plant directly into the ground. There has been an inflatable swimming pool rotting beside a tree for some time now, which has killed what little grass there was underneath it. The cats like to come out and smell the fence and the grass and all of the things in general.
Inside lies darkness and dampness. Walls stained with bad memories and nicotine, crumbling paint, and cobwebs holding on to old festering hope and keeping it out of reach. My home is a decaying symbol of the person I don’t want to be.
I have been here for thirteen years. It’s long been time to find somewhere new.