To the Abandoned

I’ve always been drawn to abandoned things.

Untuned pianos, dilapidated buildings, ghost towns… something about them has always appealed to me. I feel a certain kinship to forgotten things, forgotten places, forgotten people.

I think that’s why, when I’m in public, I tend to drift from the center of any given crowd. You can usually find me in the corner, in an otherwise empty room, or — in the case of my college days — on the 9th floor of the library, where people rarely thought to go.

Is it the quiet of the halls? Is it the sound of the air conditioner above my head, so soft I’d never be able to hear it if I wasn’t alone?

Or maybe it’s more the feeling of companionship with myself, at times the only person I truly feel connected to these days?

There seems to be something holy about communing in/with an abandoned place. It’s like a hidden world has been dying for someone to come discover it, and you walk in and gently acknowledge that it exists, and it’s good, and it hasn’t been forgotten about. Not yet.

People are like that too, I think. I once told someone that every person is like an entire universe. Whenever someone opens up to you, they’re inviting you into their intimate world, their reality. You had better be reverent. You had better say your grace before accepting that meal.

May we honor the unique universe within ourselves, and within others, and in every empty old building we drive past.

Until next time, keep breathing.

-D.