When I was a kid and we’d find ourselves driving around a particularly nice neighborhood, my mom and I would pick out which house we’d like to live in. That one with the roses, that one with the bay window, that one with the wide porch. We lived in what a kind fifth grade classmate told me was “the white trash neighborhood” that a developer whose vision was clearly muddled named “Lakewood Estates” – in a small, plain, brown house on a cul-de-sac with other plain, earth colored houses that didn’t evoke a single that one out of any of us. There was a lot of constant thought about how different things would be once we got off that street and straight into our dreams. I carry that notion with me to every apartment I move into. “This is great, but it doesn’t have xyz, so the next place will need to have that.” The next place, the next place, the next place. That one, that one, that one. Should I stay or should I go? A constant topic of discussion in my brain and out of my mouth because the grass is always greener.
Photo by Kate Miss, taken on an Ikon Ikoflex with Fujifilm Pro 400h