A creative story on the topic of 'Change': "The Lamppost"

It is the one thing in my life that has always remained uninterrupted. wish a skyscraper in a dense suburbia, its tall, engraved form rises above the despondent shuffle of the rush hour below. The maneuver beacon still sits at the mastermind of the towering lynchpin of steel. The very same beacon, which lit the path of my childhood.

I remember now, my wearisome trips home from school. As I dawdled slowly up the route from the main road, I would count the lampposts as they stood, bolt sincere like a line of dominoes waiting to fall. I would count until I came to lamppost number thirty-three, the refreshfulest one on the block. It had only when been constructed at the time of my starting school and I was affright 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 thirty-three in that respect was a lane leading off the route, it was a dark and crude(a) space fill up with dumpsters and empty boxes and crates. Along this narrow lane, there existed an entryway set in from the lane to provide treasure in the rain. In this entryway, a heavy wooden entrance once opened to my peaceful childhood abode.

Today, however, nought precisely a single thing remains.



My lamppost, immovable, remains as constant as the rise of the sun or the presence of atomic number 8 in the sweet country charge. Here however, in the depths of the city, the air is full of the pollution one gathers through the years. No weeklong the sweet innocent life, but now a mind, cluttered by the thick burden of knowledge. Transformed by education.

The street is awash with taller buildings and bright shopfronts, it has moved on to a new life,

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