Frustrated. Angry. Depressed. Annoyed. Lethargic.
Ironic it is, that I was the one prodding everyone on to get the business over with.
And now the whole house is empty. Except for my room.
I don’t have the energy to move this stuff. I feel like lying down here on my downtrodden mattress forever. Forget about the beautiful new room waiting for me. Forget about the pretty lounge, the sofa, the view from the new rooftop, the terrace, the housewarming. I don’t care. I like it here, in my cluttered box with its musty smell and dusty carpet. It’s me. It speaks of me.
It’s just a freakin room. Just a freakin house. It’s not even pretty. Nothing special about it. Old walls and broken pipes and cracks and marks everywhere.
But this house is where I came to be known as an existing truth. More importantly, it’s where I watched life unfold. I watched people being born, people dying, people getting married, having birthdays, anniversaries, praying, fighting, laughing, crying. I made friends, I made enemies. I made memories with people, of people—some of whom I can never make memories with again.
Every single crack tells a tale. Every mark a story. And it’s really frustrating that I never noticed it before.
Our tiny nursery handprints still adorn the windows. Glass-paint apples made so tenderly, only to be ruined later. Stick-ons on the wall and the door, first supporting growth charts and drawings, then certificates and pictures of celebrities, then notes and to-do lists, and until a few days ago, university posters.
And to think I thought the final thing I’d hang on those doors would be strings of roses.
But the marks, where our furniture existed not a few days ago, still stand out dark against the white. “We’ll tell your tale to the world,” they say cheerfully.
Stupid blotches. What does the world care? If the average man had even a spark of imagination, the world would be a much easier place to exist in, now, wouldn’t it?
And then I wouldn’t have to face the horror and misery I know I will when this house reaches its impending doom.
Yes. Some stupid moron will trample down with his big blazing bulldozer onto every scribble I made on the walls, every plant I grew, every hope I cherished, every wish I made, every piece of evidence of my childhood and teenage. And what will I get? Nothing. Not a single damn thing.
Of course I’m angry. Shouldn’t I be? The seventeen years of my existence in this world may not amount to much, but they certainly don’t deserve to be trashed.
They’re going to have to put up a serious fight to get through me.
The walls are empty now. Icy white and mocking. They don’t care about me. It’s just me, being the stupid, wretched, empathic fool that I am.
What am I talking about? They’re not alive.
Lord. Something’s wrong with me. I’m talking about walls and cracks telling tales.
I should be happy. We still have the same furniture. My new room is beautiful. I can finally put my domestic skills into action.
And here I am, moping about leaving an age-old place. I suck.
Honestly, I don’t understand my annoyingly human heart. My mind keeps trying to make it see reason, but in vain.
My heart is a BLONDE!
Not like saying all of this is going to make a difference. Sure, I’m being slow and lazy. But I’ll move eventually. And things will settle in. I know.
And I’ll watch my castle crash down without so much as a single tear in my eye. Because I’ll know it’s all locked up safe inside my head.
Everything will be okay. I’ll be fine. And I won’t cry.
But Lord, if only this damn phase would fast-forward onto the settling part!
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