A Home

What peculiar things houses are. They’re like treasure chests, only, instead of holding gold, silver, jewels, or money, they contain thoughts, ideas, memories, emotions, secrets, experiences, interactions, history- the walls are stained with all that and much more. They carry everything that has happened within the house. They whisper it to each other at night when everyone is sleeping, and they will continue to do so until they are no more. Even when you no longer live here, in this house of yours, your story will be one to add to the ones before you, and the ones after you. As long as The House stands, so does the history within it. Whether you remember it or not, it’s still there. It will always be there. So long as there is a “there” to go to, your life in this house will exist. It will exist until the very last wall collapses. And when it finally does, all the life in it, all the secrets, and the laughter, and the late night cries shared by the occupants of this house, all the sadness, joy, fear, thoughts, all the words you said, shouted, whispered, screamed, uttered- in pleasure or in heartbreak- all that and more will come bursting out like water rushing out of a dam that’s been cracked open. But, until then, The House silently collects all that has occurred inside it. It stains itself with the essence of You. Your house. A house that is made of much more than material things. It is made of what makes you and the others who live with you. These walls have seen all your colours and therefore know exactly how to paint you. It is like having all that is inside you become tangible. Something you can gently run your fingertips across. You are surrounded by yourself, an honest version of you. And, depending on the day, that can either be a good or bad thing.


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