The Walls Reply Strange

The furniture that doesn’t belong to me has finally been removed from my humble abode. Hence, making it a great deal more humble.

It is truly amazing how furniture can make a great deal of difference to the overall “vibe” of a house. Whereas before, the place exuded a kind of cosiness that embraced you like a fresh, heavy blanket, but now it feels seemingly indifferent towards me, with my footsteps being the only reply to my empty trudge through the halls.

We “built” this house together, but I am not lamenting the loss of my partner.

And when I say, “built”, I really mean, “paid through the nose, mouth and other such orifices for a licensed builder to construct it”. But I digress.

I visited that place every night during its construction, just to see how it had changed. How it was “growing up”. How it was shaping up to be the home we wanted it to be.

This house became a part of me, a shard of my being if you will. I fondly remember awakening at the crack of dawn so that I may put insulation in the framework just before the builders whacked up the wall panels.

I remember racing down to the site to inspect the new air-conditioning unit and ensuring the ducts were placed in the right area.

To live in the house felt blissful, as the walls warmly greeted you each morning, shielding you from the elements. The tin roof sang to you the tune of a million water droplets.

A nice morning brew was the antidote for ushering out the crisp, wintry morning air and cold wooden floors.

The place had so much potential, both physically and fiscally. To have sold it now, after living in it for a mere two years is not unlike snuffing out a candle before it has burned to a nub.

And now the place feels cold, steely and monochromatic. The echo of all noises whispers back like the frustrated curses of a powerless ghost relative who cannot offer you solace.

Like a lost loved one, the departure of one so cherished, having to leave this house deadens the soul, guts your heart and plays with your head. The overwhelming sense that you may never find a real home like the one you laboured over for a couple years is disheartening. The subsequent lingering memory of my abode is draining to black and white.

Show me another home, another soul… and I will colour it in.