Now and Then

Past:

It was a sunny morning back in April 2008, the smell of fresh grass somehow lingered through the mazes of brick and stone. Riding on my bike through this urban jungle the cool breeze of the wind is refreshing, and yet I still ride my bike oblivious to the cold, sinister slum that surrounds me. As I ride through between the high-rises the familiar smell of Gilfords bakery caresses my nose. This part of the journey is my favorite. The smell of freshly baked hot crossed buns and sweet bread fill the air around me. As i’m riding through this estate I try to perfect the tricks I’ve been practicing for months, this is my only time for freedom. I can hear the faint sounds of cars that travel past me to my right and the ongoing hiss coming from the wheels of my bike. Finally I reach the long ramp, this was my second favorite part of my journey. As I pedal down this ramp the wind runs through my hair as if I had just walked into a storm. My heart beats like a drum every time I travel down this steep ramp just like a soldier going to war. I reach the bottom, the next estate is the one in which my school belongs to but before I can get there I’ve got an ocean of cars to cross. I can hear whaling sirens and the coarse sound of multiple horns. Although these sirens and police cars are ever-present I still lay oblivious to what they are there for, they just whiz by whilst I stay sat on my bike.

Present:

As I walk through this urban jungle in the cloudy night sky, I can see many tattoo’s on the battered blocks of lost souls. Walking through the maze of estates somehow gives me a false sense of security, the stained yellow lamps that light up the foreign writings on the walls and the everlasting smell of wet concrete always bring back memories from childhood. I now realize that as I walk through this estate I am walking through a graveyard, many sons died and many mums cried due to the senseless crime in this unforgiving community. For many years I have walked these paths but they are no longer the same, the screams of children that have suffered are still echoing through these blocks like ghosts, they linger around leaving only a shivered spine behind. The steady pitter patter of rain on my jackets hood makes it seem as if I’m sheltered away from everything, as if it’s a natural reaction to ignore the pain and suffering that has taken place throughout the lives who have lived here. The bleak staircases scattered with blood and needles only lit up by a single flickering light gasping for its last breaths would scare many, but intrigues me as it is a constant reminder of the place I once was and where I still could be.