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⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
And with the click of a dead man's fingers, I'm shipped off to unknown lands, just like that. Leaving everything I've ever known, ever lived, ever loved, ever hated behind.
So now I sit, in some posh car, after riding a private jet, with the window open, the air brushing my skin to remind me that this is indeed happening. Greenery surrounds us on our uphill drive. We are in California, I hope, but this isn't how it looked, at least not online. It wasn't this secluded.
The car comes to a halt as we reach big iron gates with a symbol stating, 'Heartlands,' headlining above. An armed guard comes up to the window, his eyes deeply observing everyone in the vehicle, before giving a stern nod to Mr Wright.
The gates open, and the car drives on, we reach a down, which has more life than I've seen since we left the airport, I expect us to stop, but we don't, we drive on to almost the height of this mini mountain, where two buildings emerge, they look almost like museums, a delicate architecture which must've cost millions, it's as though these two buildings look on the rest of the buildings, forming a sort of hierarchy. I expect us to drive on to God knows where, but the engine is turned off once we reach one of the structures.
The chauffeur pulls open my door, Mr Wright signalling at me to get out, stepping out I feel immersed in a new world, in disbelief my eyes inch off of everything in my surroundings, Mr Wright nonchalantly continues up the stairs of one of the structures, I must admit that climbing up the some 15 or so stairs is more exercise than I've done in time. 'Clifford Manor' A sign reads in gold cursive writing, Clifford, so my mothers family, they were this rich?
I've never been materialistic, coming from where I come from, knowing what I know, rather than the exquisite nature of the house, I think of how many homeless children could reside here. It seems that I have, over the years, formed a prejudice against those who are well off, in my eyes rightfully so, but nonetheless, condescending judgement seems to be my initial reaction to everything here. Perhaps it's because I've found comfort in struggle, in the storm, in inconsistency, it's the only thing I know, it's what I can deal with, and I guarantee some psychologist would've found a label that they could stick on my phenomenon.
This, this I cannot deal with. And perhaps it's because I feel so undeniably out of place. I've been in this town for half an hour and already I can see that I do not have the same grace and etiquette that the residents of Heartlands, that Mr Wright, that the chauffeur have, that my mother had, with each meter that we drive, I see my mother in this town, or rather what I remember of her.
I am seen as a rebellious teenager, a stray, a fuck up, for I too have, like many, struggled with many mundane issues that are common but yet not accepted by society, addictions, mental health, the thick of it.
