31.5.14

A house is not a home

There is a house.

Its nights are filled with chilled silence. There are no whispers of joy or rambunctious humour. Not even a slight warmth of laughter and any light of happiness.

Instead it is filled, filled to the brim with discontent and discomfort. The only sounds are echoes, of timid footsteps and whispered secrets. On Edge and Constantly Vigilant.

It is not a home.

Pictures of smiles and laughters fill the house. They show adventures with goofballs; capturing the moments of carefree and fun.

These pictures are lies.

There is no family; there is a household.

Silence is the patriarch; unrelenting and unyielding.

Pain is the matriarch; erratic and constant

They push and shove, paying no heed

to rational. to thought. to consequence.

paying no heed 
to the three fleeting shadows passing cross the door frame
to the three pair of ears pressed to the floor
to the three pair of eyes dried and worn

 to the innocent youth with his dimming eyes
 to the timid giant with his chained up heart
 and never to the eldest, unwise and controlled

planning unrelently, of failures and retreats, of curveballs and detours, of pain and misfortune.

No, 
not a heed of thought to three children living in a house, and not a home.

No comments:

Mine

  It’s like a hitch, when your breath gets caught in between the spaces of your ribs, as it swings up and down. Air trapped between the whit...