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Description
The silence is the first thing I notice. It seems like there's so much silence that it becomes deafening, isn't that strange? I suppose when I look over the dust and the stacks of hay they leave me with the feelings of finality and pointlessness that have been etched into me like old promises of love carved haphazardly into trees much too young to know any better. Memories are what permeate this place; those of happier times. It's funny when you look back at the past, especially when you get to my age. Every new day makes things seem a little bit darker, but the past? The past just goes on getting brighter and brighter. Just like the wall I'm leaning against, the once fresh red paint, now chipping like the nails of some old and bloated woman. Time makes bitter fools of us all goes the cliche however, and having long since lost the ability to care about the structure, this building, that once held the very tools that supported and assisted my livelihood, I've also lost the ability to careabout the past and the future simultaneously. And so I close the imposing, creaking double doors for the last time as I light the match. Goodbye farmyard memories. Goodbye tractors, hay, hoes, and grain. Goodbye memory. Hello oblivion.

Description
The silence is the first thing I notice. It seems like there's so much silence that it becomes deafening, isn't that strange? I suppose when I look over the dust and the stacks of hay they leave me with the feelings of finality and pointlessness that have been etched into me like old promises of love carved haphazardly into trees much too young to know any better. Memories are what permeate this place; those of happier times. It's funny when you look back at the past, especially when you get to my age. Every new day makes things seem a little bit darker, but the past? The past just goes on getting brighter and brighter. Just like the wall I'm leaning against, the once fresh red paint, now chipping like the nails of some old and bloated woman. Time makes bitter fools of us all goes the cliche however, and having long since lost the ability to care about the structure, this building, that once held the very tools that supported and assisted my livelihood, I've also lost the ability to careabout the past and the future simultaneously. And so I close the imposing, creaking double doors for the last time as I light the match. Goodbye farmyard memories. Goodbye tractors, hay, hoes, and grain. Goodbye memory. Hello oblivion.