This house is cold and dreary; shrouded in a silver fog with only the language of the birds to tell of its story.
A cool breeze whips through the dusty rooms, illuminating the empty footsteps that religiously walk these vacant halls.
The best intentions were started, and forgotten here.
A lone frog finds solice in an awkward bamboo thicket, while the shadows of horses past haunt a barn now run by owls.
These walls are alive. They speak in codes that I can barely recall...
I remember things being sunny. There once was music and laughter- now, only silence.
Old, dusty boxes are the tell tale signs of sentient life. Yet within them the living are mixed amongst the dead.
Forgotten rooms lack knobs, but contain history four generations deep. There are stories here. Stories that are slowly turning to dust.
Yet here I stand. Watching my childhood corrode and sift away in the sands of time...
Strangely enough, I am not mournful. The pictures, the relics- it's no longer a part of me. In fact, they don't feel like they ever were.
Someone else's memories flood my brain along with feelings numbed by time.
As I walk through the graveyard of paddocks and pens, the irony hits me full force. These fences were painstakingly manicured with every spare moment. Now they are nothing more than shambles; skeletal testimonials to farm life. If only the chickens could see it now...
A freezing fog settles in this little valley, isolating everything. The wind whispers to me- "Isn't it strange how nomadic and apathetic your race has become? Soon nature will take its course and rid herself of this plague. Care to watch?"
I face my mountain, my steadfast rock and breathe in a clean, crisp breath. Wild eyed and wiley I reply- "adveho quod adepto mihi".
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Just a figment of your deranged imagination...
"No matter where you go, there you are"
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"No matter where you go, there you are"