“Recall your life for me.”
“Recall my life?”
“No, recall a moment. What is your life to you?”
“My life is my house.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is evenings of cooking and dishes. It is laughing and watching television with loved ones. It is the mundane routine of day to day. It is the tears I shed in the shower. It is the pleasure and peace I have found beneath my sheets. And there is nothing to see but walls, for no-one will ever remember these things but for me and the memory of the rooms.”
“… I see but a kitchen.”
“I feel the moment in which my hand bled to yonder knife. I hear my children asking for food and drink.”
“I see only a sitting room.”
“I hear the laughter of celebration, of birthdays and Christmas’s past.”
“I see a table upon which to dine.”
“I recall meals shared and see that mark? Yes, I dropped a candle there.”
“I see a bedroom, a place of rest.”
“No much more than that, This is where my heart was stolen… this is where my tears live.”
Just something I was playing around with. Will probably go back over that a few times before I am happy with it.
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