When you look through the window, you see the vast stretch of green land for miles. I’m told it takes an hour or two to go to the civilization where people live.
My friends say it’s so much different than before. A whole different age even. They – my friends – travel a lot. They know all about these things. But I don’t have the same luxury, do I? I look after my abode. However, it may be or look. I agree it could do with some tweaking, but it is what it is. I like it no matter the broken windows which hang on it or the door frames falling off of it. It’s my house.
I’ve lived here since I was a child. I remember looking out the window and seeing a herd of cattle around. I remember the way the sun lit up every morning. I remember the smell of earth in rains, the feel of breeze around these plains. It was beautiful, I remember. I remember playing catch with my siblings out there. Then there are moments, which I have no recollection of.
Of how I am stuck in this place.This world, this house. All I ever remember of this place has vanished. The place has rusted before my eyes. I don’t see the cattle anymore – it’s been a very long time. And the breeze? There’s isn’t one. It’s stiffing. The vacuum around this place strangles me day by day. I try to breathe but there’s no air! It is almost like it’s been shielded from life altogether. My only visitors are the shadows – my friends – they talk and seem to know everything about everything.
All I remember before this time is this extreme headache and me falling. And as I was falling – I see through the window – everyone fleeing, the animals, the neighbours, my family; as if they were chased out. Then? Black.Pitch black.
I opened my eyes, and it looked the same. But everything was very wrong. Nothing seemed as before. The place was dead before my eyes. Maybe I was too. I can’t be sure of it. I try, try every day to get out of here. Out that damned door, but it just won’t let me go. This house! I can’t leave! This shield around me that won’t budge. It just won’t.
I think I am going mad. Can the dead do that? Maybe I am not dead. But… but I don’t age either… Maybe it’s the house!
- Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses (mmobytes.wordpress.com)
- Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses (crazywildflower.wordpress.com)
- Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses (amygray197734.wordpress.com)