My Love of Abandoned Places

There is something awesome about places. They are immovable and, in some very basic ways, unchangeable. A place will always be in the same… well, place. Years go by. Decades, centuries. And a place just sits there, letting things walk on it. People, animals. A place patiently listens to the ever-changing wildlife or people that inhabit it. Maybe those people remain for a long time or maybe their presence is only there for a transient moment. Some places–those cities that “never sleep”–are inundated with a constant din of conversation and noise. I often wonder if those places ever tire of it. Or maybe they thrive on it.

The thing about places is that if all of it was suddenly taken away– the people, the voices and noise– the place would remain. Lifeless. Soundless. But still there.

I wonder if places get lonely. And I wonder if places could talk what they’d say. What stories they’d tell. Whose feet had treat upon them. What secrets they’d heard. All the stories of life and death and love and loss. How much of that sticks with a place after it’s all over and done?

There is a great collection of photos of these kinds of places, and there’s a nifty account on Twitter that posts them.

I stare at the photos of these places and my mouth usually gapes and I occasionally find I’m mumbling to myself “I want to go to there.” I want to sit in the silence and the oldness of them, pretending I hear them telling me their story. I want to imagine all those who have been there before me, and then imagine those who may wander across the same path long, long after I’m gone.