Thursday, December 9, 2010

this is our house.

On the mouldering façade of the house, the once intricate tracings of ivy have grown into a thick fur.
But even those resilient green tendrils have begun to wither away...

This is our house.
This is where we make a semblance of life.
This is where the atmosphere integrates decaying, whispered confidences with a shivering solitude.
This is where gravestones grow overnight, quietly and effortlessly like ghoulish mushrooms.

We might as well deliberately cultivate weeds in our garden since all that grows there is a poisonous regret that chokes anything else that tries to develop.
{Vindictive thorn pricks with no rose to alleviate the sting.}

The sun shines everywhere but never seems to penetrate the haze we linger in.
All we see of the sunbeams are the shadowed bruises that trail behind them.
{For all our inner fog we might as well live in darkness.}

Ghosts inhabit these walls, to be sure.
We live in a wary submission to the company of these in a phantasmal beings.
{Often I wonder which will crumble first, this house or this family.
And if we were gone... would the ghosts cease to be?}

This is our house.
We live here because we must.
We live here because we cannot forget.

{Picture found here.}


  1. Ooh, creepy. Well done.

  2. Thank you, Jenica. My writings, as of late, have been leaning towards a ghoulish tendency and I can't pinpoint why exactly! :)

  3. I agree with the first comment, it's creepy, but at the same time fragile - I can't explain it. It's almost like those days when we feel so weak, yet so at peace with ourselves. This line "All we see of the sunbeams are the shadowed bruises that trail behind them." was oh, so beautiful. Never stop writing, dear. I'll always be reading. :)

  4. Thank you so much, Joanna. Oh, I know what you mean. And I think that is part of what the narrator's mindset is.
    You are so sweet. I shall never stop writing. I don't think I could even if I tried. :)

  5. This reminds me of a Kate Morton novel. Gorgeous! <3

  6. Oh my!! Praise indeed! I do so admire Kate Morton, as you know. Writing something even vaguely reminiscent of her would be amazing. Thank you ever so much! <3


Silhouettes of a secret. A story told over a cuppa. Or perhaps just sitting on that stone bench, basking in the moonlight... and not saying anything at all.

("I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks." -Shakespeare, Twelfth Night)