I step out of the bus, glimpse left and right, then I hop on my board. The sound of urethane on asphalt is heard, as a slight touch of wind sails across my face. I turn to the right and then it’s going imperceptibly down. A road that has the perfect balance of a smooth ground and somewhat downhill, I don’t accumulate too much speed, neither do I have to push, the ideal mix. The end of the street is in eyesight, an ollie onto the uneven sidewalk is necessary to slow down. Now I have to walk a short distance, and I will reach my destination.

I am where I want to be. A skatepark slightly out of town, graffiti everywhere, concrete so rough, it makes me feel a vibration all the way up to my knees. This place is not appealing; most people avoid it.

If I don’t visit you in weekly, I need to grind the rust off your ledges, need to take care of you. I breathe life into your lifeless existence. Skateboarding is what I do.

A place like this is where I want to waste my time, imperfections I learned to admire. I assume to know every corner, but I always encounter something new. The possibilities on these ramps are undiscovered, yet often pictured by me. I’ve known this place for so long, and share so many memories. The ledge over there? That’s where I learned to grind; it was a long, sweaty, and exhausting process. The feeling of accomplishment was worth it in the end.

A greatly built skatepark is what I always wanted to have, the polar opposite of this. Now that we have both in this town, I oddly still prefer to go here. The quiet population, mostly less than three people, always calms me down.

People often consider home a place, where you feel comfortable, a place where you feel safe, a place that you connect with heartwarming memories. That’s why I consider this park my home.


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