There’s an old house at the road’s edge, where Memories live, staining the walls of their prison, unable to leave. And even if they can, they cannot stand up against Truth and Enlightenment. So, they stare out the sun and light outside, each golden shard only serving to heighten Memories’ misery.
Memories once reigned supreme in that old house. They controlled and dictated the lives of its occupants. They filtered out the truth. Memories were a power unto themselves in those days, old decades ago.
Memories stained and colored the walls and roofs of that old house. And stained with a vengeance, they did. In a life where everything ages and peels, no one sought to question why the Memories of that house never aged or got tired, but deepened and darkened in hue to the point of garishness and vulgarity and hypocrisy.
No one asked why it was so. No one pondered its authenticity.
But people we knew regularly paused to pay those Memories homage for they were blinded to the truth.
Then one day, the worshippers moved on, as worshippers are wont to do. No longer did they pause at the self-created Altar of Supreme Heroism.
Consequently, Memories grew lonely, chaffing and bleeding at the lack of homage it so needed to stay burning. Twenty years since we left that home to start anew in a town miles away, Twenty years, and I have nothing but loathing for that old address of my childhood. In my mind, in my memories, in my dreams, I’ve gone back to that old house, but never past the bit of road that leads to its gates, never to turn the key in the lock.
For I believe that some doors must always be locked. Let the Memories remain hidden from view; allow them the freedom to mark the walls of a home no one will ever return to.
But to come out and reach my new life, the Memories must not.
For within this old house live Memories, not of Life or Truth, but of death and sorrow that no one will ever understand because they are birthed in the shadows of emotional, spiritual and mental abuse. Such Memories must never be altered, trimmed or changed; they must remain as they are, lest they be given life again. They must stay locked up in that old house at the road’s edge, so they can never taint another life again.
For such Memories, their abode must eternally be in homes left behind and cared not for.
So, these days, living in freedom and light, if I chance upon old and crumbling houses, where once I used to lament the slow death, the decay into oblivion, I now choose to imagine and hope that, a dying house is instead a sign that someone has gone on to burn brighter and true and unfettered….. and safe…… and joyous………Elsewhere.