I walked the embankment again. I flew. I was breathing and smelling all kinds of memories floating from the river. It smelled too good, I felt too good. I was sure I knew all the pavement tiles and wild naughty grasses bursting forth between them. It was insane to love it that much, but I did. I walked and I flew.
Getting closer I was thrilled with content – and I knew it was not special, but it just felt too good. What a scene – melted in late evening sun, orange sky glowing over the town. I stopped by the supermarket – bought some hot, freshly-baked rolls, cottage cheese, two beers. I passed by its dull building and walked into the meadow.
I was sinking in dewy high grasses. It was getting a bit cold, humid, but fresh. I was walking these trampled paths, trying to navigate and not always succesfully, but it didn’t matter. This time I was not flying – I was stepping heavily on moist ground, reaching my destination always a little bit too fast. The maze of paths would finally guide me right. I saw silloutes sitting above the meadow – suspended in twilight. And it was perfect, that I know for sure – it was all we needed and more.
I climbed the heating pipe – some one and a half meter above the ground – I chose the one with a view over the meadow, with my back turned to the supermarket. Those two – how I miss you now that you’re gone…
Meandering like two greasy silver snakes, sneaky, but prominent at the same time, convoluting shapely bodies into pleasent nishes and back – central heating pipes that were no longer heating anything.
Sitting on them you would see stars, grasses, meadow and town – it was always a bit too chilly with cold gusts of wind ruling over open space. Everything could happen, everybody was there.
We all know this love – so different and special for each of us, but the same at its core. Love towards an infrastructure that once used to work for some practical purpose, but no longer does. It is – like a monument – superficially useless, but inspiring and inviting. Love for infrastructure with old skeleton and a new spontanious purpose – small town thing. We all know this love for old rail tracks, iron bridges, weird black unused wells. We all know the roughness of these spaces, the relentless industrial charm, spaces established – with no supporting service, just bear skeleton from a previous life – gathering spots.
Rest in piece, my dear old loves – buried underground with all potential bonds of friendships and adventure.
04 / Kinga Zemła
archandphil 
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