Better than Chocolate.

planettampon:

On my way home after spending 24 hours in the town I grew up in, to say farewell to a best friend from years ago. I feel exhausted and overwhelmed from the memories that came back to me, once dormant and long-forgotten.

Spending hours in the town library on the weekends to escape from the blistering heat, sneaking out of school during lunch to break into the many empty houses to smoke cigarettes. Spending three dollars on hiring out Donkey Kong Country and the remaining two dollars of my pocket money on a large white paper bag of mixed lollies. The time we discovered the entrances to the storm drains that spread out under the entire town, and the times we explored them with shitty Bic lighters and dying torches. I used to ride my bike everywhere, I never walked. The times we rode our bikes out to the Tarps, which were large mountains of grain covered in vinyl, and the time we found a hole up the top, and we all jumped in. We were standing on top of loose grain, fifteen metres above the ground, thinking it was completely safe. It was only until we found a dead bird that we climbed out.

I drove past the houses where my friends used to live, and thought of the days I spent there, past the houses our family lived in, desperately taking in every detail to get an idea of what the lives are like for the new owners. It took every ounce of self-restraint to not park the car, walk up the driveway and enquire as to who was living in the room I first masturbated in when I was eleven years old. It’s so strange knowing that the house you grew up in is now lived in by others. Those rooms are still our rooms, the tree out the front is still our tree we built a house in. The swing set out the back that my father built is still our swing set. Except it isn’t. It’s a strange feeling.

I drove past the schools I attended, intensely studying every building and letting memories enter my thoughts. The time I threw a tin pencil case at Tara Cheyne’s head, making her cry. I can’t remember why I threw something at her, we were close friends? The art room where we learnt about pop art, so I made a Tic Tac box out of cardboard, 20 times bigger than the original size.

My best friend from when I was about 8 till I left that town at 14 was killed in a hit-and-run accident a couple of weeks ago in Newcastle. I hadn’t spoken to him in ten years. The last memory I have of us is, as 14 year olds, riding our bikes around town, the day before we left. I can’t remember the last time I sat on a bike. I’m going for a ride the second I get home.