It would have been my folly, a consequence of not thinking straight, that there were too much upturned earth in our midst. The signs of indecisions, the epitome of a collapsing life. That warning sign that says, “You have no idea what you’re up against”.
Time had not weathered most of the scars. The dead birch tree still stands on our backyard, like someone refusing to move on. Of course the roses have all died a long time ago, perhaps the same time we both started dying. Before the very essence of our union started its short journey towards decay.
The child’s swing still hangs. A sad reminder of a dream that’s never meant to come true. A thing so misplaced, it distorts the very essence of its existence. It’s all been a gamble, and we lost big time. Like planting a rose in our backyard in the middle of winter, foolishly hoping it would survive to see spring. 
The house resonates a sad whimper each time the wind blows. Old houses and sad memories, of dreams and defeat. We once had a life, and it perished within these walls. And the evidence of the catastrophe marks every corner. 
And so I walk in it, day and night, haunting, remembering, retracing the steps of a life that had once been mine. Touching the walls that only knows the past and never the future. The floors creak, and the old beds sag. The photos on the walls look on like windows to a twilight zone. The old grandfather clock strikes midnight, and I continue my walk around and within the house, that once hid my body and now imprisoned my soul.


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