harraser
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 3, 2001
- Messages
- 2,092
This house was built by giants.
With it's ten foot ceilings and it's light switches and door knobs at head height you forever feel like a child. Miniscule. Insignificant.
This place is perfect for us. There is a certain romance about dilapidated houses. To the likes of us they ache of home in a way that no ultra-modern computerized touch of a button mod cons condominium ever could. From the puddles on the kitchen floor when it rains, to the mould, oh the mould, growing rampant on the bathroom ceiling and spreading like a cancer throughout the rest of the house, this place was home and perfect like no other could be.
The grass in the yard, too thick and overgrown to walk through, too full of old rotting apples and oranges to mow. The gardens, testaments to some backyard farmer long dead by now, still thriving despite the years of neglect. Apples and oranges. Rhubarb and rosemary. Spring onions and pumpkins. All healthier, all tastier than anything you could hope to find in a store.
If we showed our parents they would never understand. We could spend all year explaining with the most articulate and verbose descriptions and they would still shake their heads, wondering where they went wrong. How could a middle aged nine-to-five suburbanite ever see that here in this house with its gravity defying lean, we have all we could ever need. A herculean hot water system, a 2 minute walk to chinese food and an all night liquor store, and somewhere to plug in the radio.
At night we shiver in the cold and wake damp with moisture or the sweat of our fevers. The space heater forever fighting its futile battle against the unseen enemy creeping in through the gaps around the doors and windows.
In this house you are never completely comfortable.
In this house you could never ever stagnate.
In this house, where you are always laughing and nothing really matters, we found perfection.
This house is Home.
With it's ten foot ceilings and it's light switches and door knobs at head height you forever feel like a child. Miniscule. Insignificant.
This place is perfect for us. There is a certain romance about dilapidated houses. To the likes of us they ache of home in a way that no ultra-modern computerized touch of a button mod cons condominium ever could. From the puddles on the kitchen floor when it rains, to the mould, oh the mould, growing rampant on the bathroom ceiling and spreading like a cancer throughout the rest of the house, this place was home and perfect like no other could be.
The grass in the yard, too thick and overgrown to walk through, too full of old rotting apples and oranges to mow. The gardens, testaments to some backyard farmer long dead by now, still thriving despite the years of neglect. Apples and oranges. Rhubarb and rosemary. Spring onions and pumpkins. All healthier, all tastier than anything you could hope to find in a store.
If we showed our parents they would never understand. We could spend all year explaining with the most articulate and verbose descriptions and they would still shake their heads, wondering where they went wrong. How could a middle aged nine-to-five suburbanite ever see that here in this house with its gravity defying lean, we have all we could ever need. A herculean hot water system, a 2 minute walk to chinese food and an all night liquor store, and somewhere to plug in the radio.
At night we shiver in the cold and wake damp with moisture or the sweat of our fevers. The space heater forever fighting its futile battle against the unseen enemy creeping in through the gaps around the doors and windows.
In this house you are never completely comfortable.
In this house you could never ever stagnate.
In this house, where you are always laughing and nothing really matters, we found perfection.
This house is Home.
hope your move was good 
