A Stranger's House was Once Mine

I could only hope to die there one day. Peacefully, in my sleep, I prefer. My escape house has been renovated over the decade… while it was once a poor house with shagged carpets and wallpaper reminiscing old times, it has since become an elegantly modern cottage. It was more beautiful when it was horrendous and worn… I wish I could have been there to stop them, I wish I would have been old enough to purchase it before them, I wish I had pictures of what it once looked like so that I could dream over photographs rather than lost spirits. Even now, with its shiny, wooden floors and its dramatic deck, I wish I could go back. The land is the same, the layout is the same, the memories are the same. Even now, even though they have no clue, I still consider it my escape house, my safety net, my life line… even while I’m a world away… I don’t think anybody could ever take that away from me, I’d be a nobody then.

It will pain me to own a house one day. To customize it to my liking, to make it into something refreshing and full of vibrant hues, to use an artist’s brush and create. What if it was once their escape house? Surely, they couldn’t blame me, I’d have no clue as well. But it pains me to think that times change and that safety nets sometimes become dismembered and drip to the ground along with the rest of time. That house meant everything to me, even if it’s no longer my house… it’s where I grew up, where I could hide, where my tears would be wiped away. I called it home during summer vacation, during winter break, and during the spring. It was yellow, plain, and silent. I could think in peace back then, without bickering with myself and an empty hollow.

I didn’t think it would mess me up this much. When it was actually happening, I thought that was the worst of it. I thought getting away was the cure, traveling the world until I could find a hideout far away so that nobody from that town could ever see me again. When you’re of the abused they only cater to you when you’re a child. Once you’re grown, you’re by yourself, alone, frigid… afraid of everyone, it’s more difficult for me now, reality lives farther away than I’d like it to… or maybe I’m the only one who can see reality, maybe we really are evil in the purest form.

My only house was taken from me. I prefer to live in my sleep now. I don’t dream, just escape. But I have day-dreams which take me to fantasy lands often. Colors of the unknown eye, fields that stretch for generations, songs that existed in ancient lands… there are no other people around in my dreams… just animals and water that falls in symphonies. A background noise, birds and a melody. The smell of freshly cut grass. Towns without life, withstanding the vivacious howls by an invisible force. I wish I could live there instead of here. If I could go back to the highs… I’d just want to be there, with my mother and my brother, jumping around in the rain, forgetting about my second “house,” which was always cold to the touch, and far too big for my liking. Sometimes, I wish I could burn that house down. Light a match and delete that part of me, but then I’d be nobody. What am I without my struggles? Would I still be strong? These questions tussle with me during the midnight hours, they make my cheeks burn too.

I wish I could go back. Instead, I sit here. With a bottle of booze and a midnight stroll and late night thoughts, and I think to myself, and I talk to myself. I wish I could go back. I wish I could experience pain, and then experience the highs. I wish I could feel as deeply as I once felt then.

If I only knew.