Finding Every Single Corner

We all have our favorite places, and I pity those who never find theirs.

I've spent my life exploring my hometown, finding new spaces to do absolutely nothing. I have created a mental map of these places, that I call upon to satisfy my constant need for activity, a trait that is both productive and strenuous. I meticulously organized them by their uses; some are for exploring- the old water tower, the bunkers, the old barn near Gazzam lake. Others are for long talks- south beach platform, steps, Rockaway and all the beaches to watch the city lights.

When the sun is setting I go to the south end of the island, to the cliff that lies between the houses facing outward and those that sit on the hill. Here, if you push through the bushes and sit on the cracked earth, which is not entirely stable but solid enough to ward off the waves, you can see the sun sinking low.

For years now, the drive along Point White, the Southwestern edge of the island, has been a source of nostalgia and countless memories.

When I was younger, it was a weekly routine to slowly drive around the point with my dad, discussing each house, evaluating them by architecture, landscaping, and of course, the most important factor- charm. We would revel at the houses that we loved in the same intensity each drive, as if every detail had not been discussed countless times before

I have lived on this same 65 square miles my whole life, and though small, I am constantly shocked by the places I have found tucked away down every dirt road or footpath.

My road has two graveyards on it. The older one contains hundreds of chipped and mossy headstones- about a 30 minute walk over the large hill and through the woods. I have never seen anyone else there. I pick flowers from the overgrown meadow nearby and leave them for the people whose names I can no longer read.

Not everyone would consider this a "cool place" to hangout, but I would argue that the experience is incredibly worthwhile

When I was little one of my favorite things to do was to make maps. Naturally they were wildly inaccurate, but they served their purpose well. They mapped out hiding spots downtown for the exchange of notes with my childhood best friend.

The lobby of a local restaurant harbored a loose brick in its floor, that could be wedged and lifted- the perfect slot to conceal a piece of paper. The old piano that had been turned into a sort of rugged harp by exposing its strings, had many opportunities to hide messages in its cracks. This town was our post office, and every nook and cranny an envelope to deliver our messages.