There is a place in America that most people don't know even exists. It looks like this place but take away the trees, the nice houses and the paved roads. It's like this place but take away the smiling faces and the politeness of the people.
The dry, barren land rolls of forever in hills of yellow and gold with specks of the occasional bush. Rock formations made up like people and animals rise from the ground bleached white from millions of years exposed to the unforgiving sun. These rock formations make you twist your head all the way around to get a better look as you go driving by. A better look at the black color of the ground as it rises to form these enigmatic rock formations. The black turns to blood-red to orange to brown and finally to white. You wouldn't want to stop because it's flaming hot out and you would have to cross two barbed wire fences. There are animals in this dry place though, they can live here but no one knows if they are happy because people own them. Horses, cows and sheep are everywhere grazing on who know what all day long. They look at you in an unwelcoming way when you pass by, just like their owners tend to do. Some of these people who live in this place are down right mean. They don't like strangers or people who don't look like them. They speak their language while you pass by and they snigger and try to hide their jeering smiles. They think you look funny and you don't know anything. They think that you are weak because you complain about the heat and lack of technology in this place. Lack of technology should be a crime in this day and age, but these people don't care. They don't need it so they find old-age alternatives and live pretty much secluded from the rest of America who is advancing far beyond what these people could ever imagine. The rest of the America forgets about these people and these people know it. They want to complain to someone besides their leader but they don't know how, so America continues to leave them out. So all they can do is feel indignant and try to make their lives better in their own way. They over indulge in all the things that make them happy and they don't care about their image or income. They think life will stay the same and it will never get better. It's partly true and they become even more secluded and foreign from the rest of America. It becomes a different country with imaginary borders they would dare not cross. The inherited number these people receive at birth is their passport, telling them that they have to stay here and always present it when ever –if ever- they should cross this imaginary border. This passport is the only thing that separates them from everyone else. They know what it means and they take advantage but at the same time they don't care to take advantage. Maybe they are tired of being so different and forgotten. Some of them go out into America but are quickly brought back. Maybe it's the passport, there must be something wrong with it. It makes them feel too unique and it ties them to this place. It makes them feel good about their seclusion and gives them a reason to stay in these poor conditions. But at the same time they hate it. Yeah, there must be something wrong with the passport, it shouldn't make them feel like that.
The sun makes its way to the west horizon and turns the sky into the color of the rock formations, blood-red and orange with spears of shiny yellow clouds that dart across. There is no smog or lights to hide the stars as they slowly peek out of the atmosphere. The beauty of this place makes up for the lack of everything else that these people don't have. It offers comfort and a place of belonging, a lot more than their passport could offer. There really is a place like this, right next door.
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