Suburbia at 7:32 PM

They moved to the Edge, away from the bright lights and danger. Building walls of concrete to keep out Evil and keep in Good. They raised their children on streets lined with front porches and green lawns. A fortress from the world, from the harsh sun that bears down on those left outside the sidewalks and driveways. Lemonade stands and ice cream trucks deal out their wears, leaving their customers comfortably numb. Locked doors and closed blinds, keeping the shouts and emotions from breaking out into the streets. The padding on the walls, accented with the perfect trim and specifically picked to match the imported apolstry, absorbs any sound from within.

What is to be done when these walls no longer can hold in those they were built to protect? No longer pacified by playdates and Friday night movies. The lemonade leaves a bitter sting in the back of your throat, the football games no longer filling that void. Left blinded by the whiteness of the walls, groping for something to hold on to. No wonder the children, no longer comfortable feeling the stillness those places create, no longer accepting the image of the American Dream so passively eaten by them, yearn to feel. Crashing into each other, into themselves they greedily swallow any pill of emotion or experience, beyond the perfectness of their childhood. Suburbia has fallen, those left, unaware the experiment has collapsed, lumber on into a paralyzing white light. Those who have fled, stumble arms stretched out, unaccustomed to the dim light that was once to bright for their fathers. I remember writing this in 2008, I was a little drunk and 20. I'm not as bitter as I once was, does that mean I can't write the same as I did?