Ok, so this is a first for me, normally I sit down at my laptop, my soul and fingers go for it … and I hitch along for the ride to see what happens (well not quite, but I am rarely at a loss for what to say and it seems to come quite naturally, no doubt from having a stifled “voice” most of life, it is now making up for lost time). So this is an interesting exercise for me! The idea is to see this prompt from Liz “TheWritingReader“… and write about it. I have never written anything in my life other than non fiction and from my own perspective so this is going to be very interesting and can you tell that I am putting it off as long as I can? But I want to do this, I really do. It will be a great exercise …I think.. I have NO idea what I am going to even say!
Everything about this image makes me want to go inside. It makes me want to know what is within, what stories it holds and who lived there … not who now lives there for it feels as though when I open that door the room will be physically empty. Empty but for the stories in the walls, the floors, the fire place …for I feel sure that there is a fireplace. Who lived here, cried here, made love here and fell in love here? Who hurt and who bled, who breathed their first or their last breath here? Who owned the dreams that were made, shared, won and lost?
And which outweighed the other? Was it a happy home filled with children and love, community and success, or was it a place of pain and loneliness, lost dreams and broken hearts. Did those who lived here carry their burdens heavily and drag themselves through a miserable life or where their yokes shared well and their miseries few?
In the very beginning, who painted those walls and carved those stairs? Who added metal bars and why? What colour was that door when it was brand new? …For once upon a time that door was very much brand new, as were those stairs and walls and windows. They were someone’s dream, someone’s creation. Were they proud of what they built and bought and moved into, or was it a compromise, a “scaling down”, a rent they could barely afford which would never be theirs? Was it all they every dreamt of or was it what they had to settle for?
There is nothing left now but darkness and cold, empty walls and scratched bare floors. But each and every one of those scratches and marks, those worn through patches and shiny scuff marks, ..tells a story. A story of a person with a beating heart and a rich deep soul. A soul that belonged to a life… a life that was either well lived, badly fought for, or a mixture of happenings of both. Who won the battle for each of those souls… the devil himself or the God of Heaven and earth? Where are they all now? Where did they go, their human lives long gone, forgotten, no longer relevant … or did they live on in the memories of the generations after them. What marks did they leave on the hearts and souls of their children and grandchildren, …or did they leave no mark at all, but the scuff marks on the stairs?