Freckles. Speckles and Geckos
Freckles. Speckles and Geckos. They all live in my house.
My house is unfinished like an art piece, raw like a softcover book. I rip it apart to make it fit. It breathes with me. Each room has a different smell and a different sound.
I like my house but I want to leave it too. Houses make you stuck. Not because they are houses but because they are places to maintain and you can’t maintain something you don’t use.
That’s why everything is broken. That’s why it looks so cool. That’s why we can use it in 40 million different ways and ride the waves of every season. Even if that season may be a tumultuous one. But seriously is that what we want?
Kinda. Yaaa it looks cooler that way. For a little bit at least until the work runs out and the art becomes a mess that stinks and isn’t used or fed. That’s why I wouldn't want to be the warden of a zoo. It’s alive. This house. Every house maybe. The grain elevators look like mountains in the morning and army bunkers at night. I see tall men standing peering over the tracks watching the world turn and the graffiti go by.
If you take what your writing to seriously it doesn’t give you the opportunity to write. I like to write. I like to see where it takes me. I like my house. I like where its going. But eventually I too will go and this house will be alive without me. That’s the sign of a good house. If you set it up right, people and things will love and respect it.
I have two questions. Only one really matters.