One would think, with so much time on my hands, I could be writing reams worth of words. This, however, is not the case. I simply don't have much to write about. The only thing that comes to mind is the state of my hometown and its rapidly increasing levels of change. My home church and high school, both within a half mile from my parents' house, now look like weird modern versions of research facilities. My church, the place largely responsible for the foundations of my faith, seems to exist in another time. What it is presently holds next to no familiarity for me. Even the pull of Sunday mornings aren't enough to incite any sort of directional movement. I still know some names, but the people aren't the same. There are many faces from my past who are simply no longer there, having progressed through the Christian bubble to pastor their own churches with their quaint families mail ordered from the Christian Universities catalog. There was a time when Christianity was dangerous. Now, here, it just seems rote.
The county library, once one of my favorite places to go, also has a new building. The lovely dark stacks and slightly musty smell of old books will soon be replaced with the scent of carpet glue and filtered air. Things like this make me sad, because soon, my only witness to the way this town used to look will be my memories. Everywhere I spent my childhood has a new facade, a new location, or has been bull-dozed in favor of some other replacement. These are the bricks of someone else's childhood now, someone born in this century, raised on technology and mail you can never touch. Life is entirely different here than it once was. This is a rather obvious fact, and yet despite my need for change, there are times when I vehemently wish to deny it.
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