We learn young to build our houses with brick and mortar. We can’t help it. The youth clouding our eyes tells us that anything that seems good will last forever, and before your first major loss, it’s impossible to believe otherwise.
Then comes the break.
You can’t gently destroy solid walls, they have to come down with demolition,
rough, hard, sharp.
Left with pieces you start trying to put back together, wanting somewhere in the back of your head to rebuild what was broken but knowing you can’t. The pieces won’t fit just right.
You’re left with memories, some huge, some dust, but all enough to take you to your knees if the climates enough.
You learn quickly. This hurts.
So we start building with feathers and paper; monuments so beautiful in the moment, but not built to last; ready to fall or give in at first wind’s gasp. We work and work; making ornate sculptures and pretending we believe they’re forever. In the back of our heads we know; we’re ready to go. At any notice, the wind will blow us away, but there’ll be no real pain; only starting over rebuilding.
But we’re pained to find we still have to gather the pieces. So we start building with little and lesser… no more ornaments, only the bare necessities to get us through the day. Fake. Still containing some sort of feeling of Home, but never with any sort of substance. Substance leads to solid, solid leads to potential pain.
No one takes the time to pour a foundation, cause we all have one foot out and one foot in. But maybe the bottom is where we need to begin.
I’m sick of giving in.
Then again, I guess the number of times you’re willing to pick it all up and start again could be based on the house that built you; in that case, I’ve got the upper hand. This is my family, part of my heart. All love, pure gold. I wrote about it originally here: http://myfavoritealias.tumblr.com/post/31135803540/i-got-to-fit-in-a-trip-to-dallas-into-my-travels#notes