Here I stand, in the corner of traditions. I live in a building that carries on legacies. In front of me, there is a tractor- A symbol of pride.
My room gives off somber vibes, and for that, I am overlooked. I am ignored. I am neglected. Across from me, five of my brothers are suffering from the same life I’m living, and to my left, more of my siblings are crying.
Beneath me lives a layer of majestic, brick arrangements of color. It’s been almost a century of being in this same corner and yet the room still feels new. I notice a new face each and every day. They pass me in the halls but no one stops to look. Nobody cares to listen. Not a single person notices me enough to appreciate. And while I am greeted by the stares of my kind each and every day, it is never enough. I wonder if any one of them will ever pleasure me with the feeling of acceptance. I wonder if I will ever be acknowledged as a significant figure in my own home.
The mornings disgust me. Thousands of them pass me. Of the thousand, one hundred look at me. Of the hundred, not a single admires. Uninvited, they fill the halls of my home with excess noise comprised of obnoxious yelling and laughing. They all appear different. Each and every one of them. They’re all different in their own identical ways.
As the afternoon approaches, my mood lightens. They will be getting out soon. When they finally do, I am delighted with silence. As I continue to stand in this corner, accompanied by my family of decayed beauty, I mourn. I mourn over my own deteriorating body. I stand here in this corner, surrounded by lights and bricks and magnificent designs. I stand here in this corner, eaten up by the lack of attention, swallowed up by dust and cracks and scratches. I continue to stand here, in this corner, waiting. Waiting for somebody to save me.