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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() the house on the hill is empty. the furors have long let themselves out, only tumbleweed remains. the house knows its worth. the winds sweep away fine dust every Sunday afternoon, the house cares for them each winter. the village folk have evaporated. the house knows of only their existence, though it suspects no one else remains, too. the lost people left stitched flower petals in their wake, and it’s strange how someone so capable is now reduced to a few parallel threads and a masked craft person's skill. every “i’m here and thinking of you but too afraid to call,” has gone unaccounted for, their pencil lines chafing till they remain no more. hundreds of cicadas still bloom in a near perfect circle, no one is left to cup their petals. controversies wait to be harvested. the painted restaurant squares and clean tiles are
fading away, the only homage paid to them a wet tissue paper fluttering down to kiss the cold floor. if the house caught on fire right now, nobody would notice. the sirens wouldn’t slice through the air as though smoky redemption will erase past mud stains. grease stains will still stubbornly cling on to discarded cloth, even though the crisp take-out paper was first to wither. curry leaves will fall, caress the spice one final time, then decompose and regrow and decompose and regrow and maybe once the fire reaches the nearby forest, the human corpses will come stumbling out of their unburied caskets, agonize over the meaning of such destruction, cry wispy tears to inadvertently support the dying plants. perhaps they will repent. the house is not fragile. although the stench of stale herring overwhelms its base, the house is assured that it will not collapse. built on a double-slashed date that seems irrelevant despite the context, it sometimes groans as it shifts from one foot to the other. the trees sometimes wonder whether the iron nails in its belly stab it on occasion. do cut-out dialogues from conversations led astray come knocking on its unhinged door? how does the house greet them, does it let them in? do charcoal shavings mistakenly end up in the pile of Sunday dirt? the trees are getting lonely. though they whisper this secret realization amongst themselves when the wind is gracious enough to let their branches touch, the swallows nearby take it in stride, wrap three fingers around it in a firm promise, and take off. they nestle in bronze statues where such devoted kindness colors blue on cold nights, laboriously tear off shreds off old rags and place them where roots meet ice. this knowledge is scarce, but the house shelters a worn piano, and along with it, the memories of impressionless faces playing impressionless music with hollowed expressions. the piano’s keys are like yellowed teeth, but the water nearby acts as its accompanist, plays a tune of sonic reverberation as cassettes drop out of neatly lined shelves in appreciation. scarecrow cloth looms over rotting fields, nature rejoices as nuclear reactions progress, hidden. cement starts crumbling just as white eyes begin shrinking into skull sockets. the house is a silent spectator, it cannot move in the middle of this destruction. it stands still. maybe one day, nature's anomaly won't bother to announce its arrival, and come strutting in through the windows and loose floorboards and holes in the wall. the house will roll up all that it has held back like the kids rolled up their joints, and blow it in adversity's face. it will exhale in satisfaction, shatter at the consequence, but again, ultimately, the house will stand still. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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