a selfish post

I do not post this because I think these are great shots. It's just a little story about loss.

Believe it or not, this used to be my dream house. I was immediately attracted to the rich rust colour of its textured decay. Worn fabric hung from the windows. Bins that hadn't been touched for what seemed like years sat just outside the door.

I wanted to run my hand along the brick, but instead imagined the touch and created possible histories of the people who had once inhabited it. The possible stories that led to its standing there, desolate, made me want to be the one to throw open dust-draped doors and look behind old furniture for secret hiding places.

I had once wished that I would build it up again with someone (oddly there was no face to the someone despite my being with someone at the time). Only with the one I love would I share the joy of discovering what its previous inhabitants had forgotten.

Sadly, someone else has moved in before me. They're fixing it up. Even the bricks seem grudgingly awakened by the noises within---hammers, hand drills. That house on Robert St. always calls to me for some reason. But it'll probably be quite happy all dapper and renewed by others' hands.