The Lamppost

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It is the one thing in my life that has always remained constant providing a sense of familiarity and security. Like a skyscraper in a dense suburbia, its tall, engraved body rises above the despondent shuffle of the rush hour below. The guiding beacon still sits at the head of the towering pillar of steel. The very same beacon, which lit the path of my childhood.

I remember now, my slow trips home from school. As I dawdled slowly up the street from the main road, I would count the lampposts as they stood, bolt upright like a line of dominoes waiting to fall. I would count until I came to lamppost number seventy-seven, the newest one on the block. It had just been constructed at the time of my starting school and I was awed by its supreme dominance over the rest. He was head of the force and the others were his army, forever revering his eminence.

At lamppost number seventy-seven was a lane leading off the street, it was a dark and desolate space cluttered with dumpsters and empty boxes and crates. Along this narrow lane, there existed an entryway set in from the lane to provide shelter in the rain. In this entryway, a heavy wooden door once opened to my beautiful childhood abode.

Today, however, nought but a single thing remains. My lamppost, immovable, remains as constant as the rise of the sun or the presence of oxygen in the sweet country air. here however, in the depths of the city, the air is full of the pollution one gathers through the years. No longer the sweet innocent life, but now a mind, cluttered but the thick burden of knowledge. Transformed by education.

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