Inside this head there is a house that represents my life.
Memories decorate the walls,
draped across windows and along the ceiling.
Crystallized moments dangle like dewdrops on spiderweb,
creating a thousand chandeliers.
Every room has a different story,
some so bright and colorful, a child's imaginings,
some arranged and adorned for company,
but others shrouded in sheer greys and charred blacks,
hiding the shredded and stained walls underneath.
The outside and the main rooms are carefully preserved,
groomed and manicured, on presentation for all.
The owner of the house cares for her guests.
But travel further in and know more truth.
The back rooms, though still bright,
are messy and memories are scattered about like toys,
and trophy moments kept high as if to keep a child from taking them.
But the locked basement, poorly lit,
whispers of things desired to be forgotten.
Ghosts float through the interior, muttering,
Disturbing the strung crystalline memories,
Making them flash moments into the dark spaces.
Fear, Anger, and Pain had taken residence long ago,
their destructive evidence left everywhere downstairs.
This portion of the house is kept hidden away,
locked up, even the owner rarely dares to trespass.
What would cause such a vast difference from room to room?
Treachery and grief were coupled with joy and light, she answers quietly.
My childhood was good and beautiful,
yet my years of growth were torture.
Though I still lived for the most part in innocent youth,
it was this naivete that led to the first betrayal,
shattered my trust and love.
And it happened over and over again.
My young adult life was little better.
I had many good moments, precious to me,
but I lost so much and so there is grief.
Yet still I care for my fellow humans,
so I seek that which can be hospitable for them,
welcome them in and protect and nurture those who come to me.
But all these memories that are mine have shaped me.
Touch the crystals, see my life.
Some moments of my life, some people are so amazing
that I try to hold them close,
and when it fades and becomes a memory,
I fight it, wanting to live in it forever.
But forever is not here yet,
so all I have are my memories.
This is my house, this is my life.
There is much wrong with it, much good in it.
It is painful every time the Builder comes to renovate,
but each time is good for there is one less room with darkness.
One day I will tread through the house of my life,
the shadows and fear and pain gone forever,
all memory traded for perfection.
But for now, there is life on this world,
and we collect moments to decorate our houses.
Memories decorate the walls,
draped across windows and along the ceiling.
Crystallized moments dangle like dewdrops on spiderweb,
creating a thousand chandeliers.
Every room has a different story,
some so bright and colorful, a child's imaginings,
some arranged and adorned for company,
but others shrouded in sheer greys and charred blacks,
hiding the shredded and stained walls underneath.
The outside and the main rooms are carefully preserved,
groomed and manicured, on presentation for all.
The owner of the house cares for her guests.
But travel further in and know more truth.
The back rooms, though still bright,
are messy and memories are scattered about like toys,
and trophy moments kept high as if to keep a child from taking them.
But the locked basement, poorly lit,
whispers of things desired to be forgotten.
Ghosts float through the interior, muttering,
Disturbing the strung crystalline memories,
Making them flash moments into the dark spaces.
Fear, Anger, and Pain had taken residence long ago,
their destructive evidence left everywhere downstairs.
This portion of the house is kept hidden away,
locked up, even the owner rarely dares to trespass.
What would cause such a vast difference from room to room?
Treachery and grief were coupled with joy and light, she answers quietly.
My childhood was good and beautiful,
yet my years of growth were torture.
Though I still lived for the most part in innocent youth,
it was this naivete that led to the first betrayal,
shattered my trust and love.
And it happened over and over again.
My young adult life was little better.
I had many good moments, precious to me,
but I lost so much and so there is grief.
Yet still I care for my fellow humans,
so I seek that which can be hospitable for them,
welcome them in and protect and nurture those who come to me.
But all these memories that are mine have shaped me.
Touch the crystals, see my life.
Some moments of my life, some people are so amazing
that I try to hold them close,
and when it fades and becomes a memory,
I fight it, wanting to live in it forever.
But forever is not here yet,
so all I have are my memories.
This is my house, this is my life.
There is much wrong with it, much good in it.
It is painful every time the Builder comes to renovate,
but each time is good for there is one less room with darkness.
One day I will tread through the house of my life,
the shadows and fear and pain gone forever,
all memory traded for perfection.
But for now, there is life on this world,
and we collect moments to decorate our houses.