a wall of shrubs and trees, completely ignored by the passing motorists which travel daily only some twenty feet beyond its door.
Within the house however, it is apparent that time and its workings are some of the few things which have not disregarded this place.
Windows are seated in crooked frames, ivy curls up and into the wooden facades, and furniture slowly sinks into the decayed flooring.
Things are quiet here, especially considering the close proximity of the house to the main throughway which lies just past
the front porch. A layer of dust cloaks everything, slightly desaturating the surroundings, while at the same time
exaggerating the amber light of the late afternoon sun.
A crumbling old home may, at first, seem a dull location to document, or for that matter even bother visiting at all.
Perhaps this is because there are abandoned houses in nearly every town, and seeing one is hardly considered a unique experience.
We assume that each of these places, though varied in some degree, all have similar stories to tell... if they even have one at all.
If this small farmhouse has any lessons at all to impart upon its audience, it would simply be: pay heed to the ignored.
For it is in this home, and countless others like it, that some of life's most poignant stories are composed.
There is no more intimate place in a person's existence that their home. People loved here, they learned here, and they grew here.
A house holds onto these things, absorbing them into its very fiber throughout the years, and whispers them back in
subtle ways only noticeable to those who take the time to actually listen.
( Standing Still...Collapse )