Safety is a fickle thing in a charred house. Each step taken presents a fate one might not have the courage to accept but he still treads forth like a soldier marching to battle.
Who knows? he might just have to fight for his life.
Of course, it seems like the best option is to abandon the house altogether, to get away and maybe build a new one; a house built with the timbre and nails of your own choosing.
But you don't understand, this charred house once lived. It once burnt with flames of gold and scarlet, once writhed higher in the sun and highest in the winters. You don't understand, this house was once a home. It held picture frames on its sturdy walls like medals of valor. Walls that held in screams and laughter, pain and bliss; walls that held you up when your fall was fated, that never once crumbled beneath shaky fists. Its doors slammed away the noise until it was but a murmur. The locks turned into place like loyal dogs, shielding their masters from invaders of peace. This house was once safe, I remember, though it's a fading memory. Its floor did not cave then. You could walk with thumping footfalls, trust seeping unknowingly into the ground below, arranging themselves in a natural melody- I will never fall.
Then why does it crumble beneath my weight now?
What happened to my home?
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the mood:
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*virtual hug* to whoever you are.
