rèver.

coming home to an empty house. - john paul jones

john paul jones wandered around his lonely home.

his house that was too big for one person, but he thought it would help with his seclusion.  he thought the bigger the house, the happier he could be.

but, he soon found out, that wasn't true. 

now, john was known for being reclusive and shy, maybe even a bit of a loner in a sense.  he found the time he spent with himself more enjoyable in comparison to being with other's.  though, it would never fulfill the empty longing in his heart.

someone used to live with him.  the love of his life, as he would call her. 

the beautiful doe-eyed, brown haired woman that he was lucky to call his.  the one that would cook meals, listen to him fiddle on instruments, and just listened and understood him.  the one that loved him eternally without question...

but, the world is cruel, and so are most people.  especially drunken ones.

he could never forgive that group of drunken fools.  he didn't even know if he could forgive god, or whatever almighty power that decided to be so cruel to him.

the pictures on his wall were now collecting dust.  he used to make sure they were sparkling; representable maybe.

john paul jones used to be lot's of things, but now, he's not even sure if he's full control of himself.

he does things that he wouldn't usually do, and he isn't quite sure as to why he does them.

he inspects his freckles a little more, takes care of his hair more, he shuffles decks of cards as if—as if someone will be sitting across him, waiting for him to deal them their cards.

and perhaps he's just trying to take his mind off every little thing that bothers him. 

john never liked things that annoyed him.  or things that bothered the small thing he would have to call his life.

to be honest, he never considered his life anything spectacular.  he played many instruments and was very talented, but he never viewed himself as anything better.

maybe he needed to give himself credit.  he needed to stop holding himself to a higher standard each time he played.  at least, that's what he was told.

people don't understand that growing up with two musically influenced parents affects you.  always having to be aware, be perfect, be whatever else type of adjective there is...for perfection.

john was always striving for perfection, always searching for it.  and he had found it, with maureen, but she was no longer here.

he took photos of the sunrises, the sunsets, the stars, just so she would know—he still thought about her.  john still admired her beauty, though showed in a different form now.

as he walked down the orange-lit hallway, he stopped at the open window.

john always had a habit of leaving windows open.  he just always felt as if the house needed some fresh air circulation.

the fresh air cleared his mind; his thoughts.  it didn't seem foggy or hazy that way, at least that's what he's convinced himself to believe.

he honestly didn't know what to do.  he loved this house with a passion.  but not for it's material properties.

sure, the exterior and interior was stunning.  but it was the memories that were created and absorbed into the walls that made it special. 

he couldn't just let that go; he's built too much of connection.

being home brought him comfort.  and being home once meant laying on a flower-stitched couch with maureen.

but now, the pure memories that were created in this house was home.  it was the last sliver of maureen he had left, and he wasn't willing to give that up.

he couldn't just sell this house to some stranger.  just for them to taint the walls with anything else other than his old love.

maybe he's being irrational, maybe he's overthinking the situation.

john's always had that problem.  thinking and searching throughout his head too much and too deeply, that it sends everything out of reason.

john was a thinker.  his mind was never at a blank, for his mind was always creating, creating, creating.

with each step he took, the floorboard quietly squeaked.  as if it were scared to squeak too loudly and frustrate john even more.

god, now he thinks the floor thinks of him weirdly!  inanimate objects don't judge you, bloody hell.

he ran his finger along the bookshelf, noticing a specific one.

it was the diary of a drug fiend, a book jimmy had given to him. 

john had no words for it, as he was confused half the time he read it.  he could make out music like his home language, but reading and trying to understand someone's philosophies doesn't make sense to him.

with a sigh, he finally stood in front of his piano.

he creaked a window open since the night air was cool and refreshing, something he needed right about now.

john sat down on the seat in front of his aged piano, playing various notes and whatnot.

he stared at the starry sky, memories of maureen flooding his mind all over again.

he shook his head, his dirty blonde locks following suit.

he was just now realizing how the house was so melancholy and empty.  void of any life, besides the little his own offered.

once he got into playing various tunes,

john didn't even have to wonder why his piano keys were now wet.