Telling a story forces me to seek meaning within the facts and indulge in a romance with my imagination.
I will write again, not because I have more time now but less.
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I walk by a red, squalid house every day. Its paint was peeling and reeked whenever the door creaked open.
Every week, different people would loiter about its front steps talking loudly, usually too agitated or too indifferent.
I didn't know who lived there. I didn't bother to find out. I usually averted my eyes as I scurried across this house, as if my feet had already decided a fear about this place.
Just this Friday, I walked by this red house again on my way home. The afternoon air was heavy. Too hot for a latte and too humid for a walk. Nonetheless I had them both.
I sipped my latte as I stepped into the shadow of the red house. Fool. You can't hurry when you are drinking. I reluctantly slowed my pace, while it cursed at me.
Someone started whistling from the house. The sudden music made me turn, bracing myself for an awkward greeting.
A black man, with graying hair, was standing on the lawn with a large green sofa. The sofa was gaudy but well kept. No visible stains,or tears. There were no ruffles on its skirt while it sat squarely in the lawn.
With a stiff brush, he gently and methodically combed off the dust on his sofa. He moved purposely across the sofa, moving the same brushing motion to a different patch, keenly inspecting the previous one.
It was as though he had already divided the task into hundreds of little steps which ensured a pleasing result which only he can appreciate. And pleased he was as he whistled to his flawless execution of each step.
I was confused.
This house looked in pain from the outside, yet in it lives a man who brushes his couch more carefully than I with my cat. Does the inside of this red house look better than the outside? If so, why? What is the story behind this house which haunts my commute?
My lips left my latte and my feet immediately hastened. Before my eyes could pause to collect more details, I had already left the house more curious but no less fearful than before.
I didn't know who lived there. I didn't bother to find out. I usually averted my eyes as I scurried across this house, as if my feet had already decided a fear about this place.
Just this Friday, I walked by this red house again on my way home. The afternoon air was heavy. Too hot for a latte and too humid for a walk. Nonetheless I had them both.
I sipped my latte as I stepped into the shadow of the red house. Fool. You can't hurry when you are drinking. I reluctantly slowed my pace, while it cursed at me.
Someone started whistling from the house. The sudden music made me turn, bracing myself for an awkward greeting.
A black man, with graying hair, was standing on the lawn with a large green sofa. The sofa was gaudy but well kept. No visible stains,or tears. There were no ruffles on its skirt while it sat squarely in the lawn.
With a stiff brush, he gently and methodically combed off the dust on his sofa. He moved purposely across the sofa, moving the same brushing motion to a different patch, keenly inspecting the previous one.
It was as though he had already divided the task into hundreds of little steps which ensured a pleasing result which only he can appreciate. And pleased he was as he whistled to his flawless execution of each step.
I was confused.
This house looked in pain from the outside, yet in it lives a man who brushes his couch more carefully than I with my cat. Does the inside of this red house look better than the outside? If so, why? What is the story behind this house which haunts my commute?
My lips left my latte and my feet immediately hastened. Before my eyes could pause to collect more details, I had already left the house more curious but no less fearful than before.
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A story is never over until you stop telling it.
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