Strangerhood

Normalcy and security in “picture-perfect” housing, 

each blade of grass precisely cut and each home identical to the next. 

A desperate attempt to cover up horror and hardship. 

No sorrow means no good. 

Each flawless tree branch and artfully-placed shingle is a one-way ticket to an unnatural, apathetic, joyless world, spiraling closer and closer to the horror and hardship that you tried to escape from. 

They started to draw lines in the mud between people they do and do not like. 

Now, it’s a quiet war of passive aggression, toxicity, and judgement. 

Small clusters of houses sit together, separated from others by long, winding roads that bounce up and down steep hills, like alliances. 

The only people you can even consider trusting are the ones that you can watch day in and day out. 

Outside is a No Man’s Land, a death sentence from bombs and shrapnel of condemnation. They sit in their blockhouses, hands on rifle, ready to shoot bullets of impertinence at whoever passes by. 

Danger grew, propaganda of gossip slapped on every lamppost.

They grew up and saw the pain that is bound to everyday life, they became angry and entitled. They wanted revenge.

When they have nothing else to be, people become mean. 

Just like painting an old house to cover up its molding walls, hiding pain does not make the world better, it only causes it to collapse on you.