Main Street

I live on Main Street in the heart of town. At first, it was quaint, and it is by daylight, God’s gaze. The shops are small and in four square blocks there are three coffee shops, almost twenty restaurants, and other places full of bric-a-brac. It’s certainly walkable, but there always seems to be more cars than pedestrians. A set of three train tracks crosses the village and I thought I would get used to the rhythm of their rumble, but I forgot about their horns that scream as they cross the road. It’s blaring loud and echoes off the building directly into my bedroom window. When the early to bed winter sun disappears and the village is wrapped in black, streetlights shine on no one except for rowdy teens and drunk twenty something’s. A business was broken next door to my apartment, the second floor of a 100 year old home. If I bothered to look out of the window, I may have been a witness to the caper. The window breathes cold air on me and the bones of the house crack loudly. I can’t sleep and I fear my choice of living and experiencing village life has been a disaster, because village life is only depicted delicately on postcards, yet reality deems it tiring and loud, and congested as a winter’s nasal. As I write this it is nearly midnight and a commercial train is passing and shaking my bed. I am deleting words I’m mistyping. It is going to be a long lease I fear. It has started to snow and in the morning, the photo I will take of Main Street dusted in white will tell a different story.