[Writing] Listing

My house recently went up for sale (& to date is still listed).

A¬†listing won’t tell you the number of tears spilled on the carpet or how broken a human being can be without a bone being cracked.

It won’t tell you how it watched tiny humans grow from gurgling rolling sausages to teetering little¬†firecrackers.

It won’t tell you what it is like to witness someone break down and surrender to their inner pain.

It won’t tell you the toxicity of teenage hatred nor their¬†pure vulnerability.

It won’t tell you how incompetent a parent feels watching a child struggle and when one disappears.

It won’t tell you the whispered secrets uttered in the dead of the night.

It won’t tell you the capacity for loneliness.

It won’t tell you the downfall of¬†a life’s work.

It won’t tell you how desperation feels.

It won’t tell you about feigned attempts at relationships building forts, an offered cup of hot chocolate and fresh brownies.

It won’t tell you the feeling of rejection and isolation, how deep it cuts when it comes from within the most sacred space.

It won’t tell you those tiny moments of tenderness.

It won’t tell you that there are a million stories within those walls of triumph, happiness, and utter failure.

It won’t tell you the illusion of recovery, the inner catalogue of lies, miscommunications, deceptions and misconceptions. Nor will it offer a fabric of truth when all becomes fiction or another facet of reality.

It won’t mention a number of paths one is lead down in the hope of a better life. The novels of bad advice coming from well-intended friends and family.

There is so much that many think they understand when, unless they have lived it, have no idea how desperately hard it is to get through each breath.

It won’t tell you about hope.

A house takes on a life of its own. A home is a collection of lost moments, words and memories that over time fade into the land of the forgotten, a network of rabbit holes fragmented in nostalgia.

All the listing tells are empty facts, numbers & units of measure and how much better life will be once it fills those walls.

An idea, a delusion, a lie, sold in recession.

With love.




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