𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮- 𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮

The house must have been beautiful at some point, long ago, and the remnants of that fragmented beauty lingered on. It whispered to you in the delicate hue of the peeling paint, in the gentle shushing sound as the grass in front of it swayed in the wind, in the feeling that immediately enveloped you the instant you stepped within its crumbling walls. Though now old and stooped, the house still gave an impression of grandeur from its lofty perch, rooted firmly at the edge of the hill and seemingly unfazed by the sheer cliff face that would send any soul unfortunate enough to step over it tumbling to their death. Its eyes were shuttered, as if it were sleeping, and its corners had been softened and eroded by years of exposure to the elements. The building didn't inspire awe, nor was it built to: instead it offered the feeling of the most immense comfort and relief that any that stepped inside it had ever felt. Even during the harshest winter, the house glowed with warmth and love, beckoning you into an embrace that could satisfy the deepest longing. The most intense melancholia, the most potent grief could be cured within minutes in that very embrace.

As you stepped across the threshold of the house, it welcomed you with a silence that was not cold or unwelcoming: in fact, the exact opposite. For the silence was the loudest and fullest you would ever experience, filled with the echoes of the light and life and laughter that had occupied the house before you. The garden, although seemingly unkempt and wild, was populated by flowers that perfumed the air with a floral, honey-sweet scent and that scent lingered in each and every corner of the house. And just being within its four walls would spring pure tears to your eyes, because how could a mind as limited as man's even begin to comprehend the existence of a place of such perfection and beauty as this one? How else can a person express their feelings when they realise they have found the one place in this universe and the next where their soul can feel whole and content? How can a person cope with knowing that they stumbled across the place that could heal them, that could draw the suffering and pain from them in a mere instant, and yet would have to leave it behind them?

Because although the joy you experience there is as pure and untainted as the crystal-clear waters of the brook that flows beside the house, joy is something to be enjoyed in moderation, and disregard of that rule can drive the addicted mind to madness. No human is built for perfection, for if they were the existence of pain and suffering and disease would simply cease to be. The delicate balance that makes up a person's soul and mind is like a gossamer thread that ties them to their plane of existence, and outward pressure, whether historically 'good' or 'bad' severs the thread and sends the mind spiralling endlessly deeper into the world of the mad.

The yearning at the heart of a soul is what motivates a person to continue, for if they lacked that motivation what would be to stop them from simply laying down and admitting defeat? If there is nothing left to search for, nothing left to find, how quickly the contentment that at first felt like the deepest bliss turns to a depression that has destroyed the mind and body of many a man before your time.

Life is not a game, which you spend in pursuit of the understanding of the rules that will lead to a victory of the purest and deepest ecstasy, and nor is it a journey with a destination that will heal the holes that pain burns in your soul. For if this were the case, the house would symbolise the end of every life that has been lived, rather than only materialising for those that, in many ways, have failed what life has always truly been about.

For as you make your painful, staggering way across your existence, your experiences will leave deep wounds on your soul, the scars of which will never heal. Those who resent those scars and the imperfection they represent will always miss the most fundamental and key goal of a human life: that of acceptance.

For no life has passed painlessly, and although many chose not to broadcast their scars, it doesn't promise that they are not there, hidden beneath years of protective layers built to shield the soul from scrutiny. No life stretches from start to finish without acquiring scars, and it is the point where looking back on those scars does not cause pain or resentment when a soul is truly healed.

So if you pass a house that promises you the deepest and most absolute bliss, know that if you have truly made the most of your life, the house has nothing to offer you. And although the glow of the house is painfully tantalizing, the tiniest taste of what is contained within will wreck the harmony between the darkness and the light that dwells deep within you. So pass by the house, with its whispers of love and its sweet scent and its gentle and unparalleled beauty, content in the knowledge that perfection is not and will never be the answer to what the wandering soul seeks.