(no subject)

[threeplusfire]

Some days, I dream about moving. Buying a house with a big yard and live oak trees on a hill out past one of those farm to market roads. I've lived in Texas all my life and just learned yesterday that FM 31 stands for farm to market road 31. They are all over the state, haphazard and no two alike.

At night, I hear the police sirens on the freeway, and in the neighborhood behind us. Sometimes there is the thump of helicopter blades, either the police or the hospital searching for someone on the ground. I think about the miles of asphalt around us, and I miss the suburb where I grew up. It would probably provoke no end of scorn from my friends, but I liked the suburb. It was not the 50s style cookie cutter place when I lived there. It once was a small community, enfolded by the growing city. Time had worn down the sharp edges, and the trees were tall. I miss living there, often.

But I want a big house, outside of the city with land all around it. I want an island from the rest of the world.

I fall asleep, and I wake, and over and over again. I fell asleep in the bathrub reading Murakami tonight, which probably explains my mood.

There are so many sirens tonight.

Comments

[violetisblue.livejournal.com]

"It would probably provoke no end of scorn from my friends, but I liked the suburb. It was not the 50s style cookie cutter place when I lived there. It once was a small community, enfolded by the growing city. Time had worn down the sharp edges, and the trees were tall. I miss living there, often."

Eerily like both the town I grew up in and the one I live in now, this sounds.

[tsarina.livejournal.com]

I wish I had pictures to post. Especially of the giant bushes that grew out front, that made an excellent place to hide beneath.