Everything Was Alive

Everything was alive — The walls, the windows, the chairs, the tables, the floor, everything inside the house calls out to you. You’ve forgotten them, but they remember, remember you so well.

You walk into the dust covered room, everything is covered in white, it's like a haunted house, with these ghosts dressed in white. Blinded by the sudden darkness in the room, you walk head on and clash with the table – same old, same old. It hurts, snubbing your little toe, it reminds you of all the times you were hurt here, in this house. Once you were a small boy who loved this house, loved his grandparents, loved running around the house, getting hurt in the process. A stubbed toe here, a broken nail there, sometimes jamming your hands in between the door. So careless and naive back then, but you would never hurt others.

You move your hand across the white sheet, it's filthy. You declared everything in the house dead – blinded them, left them alone and moved on.

But they were alive. They were alive and wailing with their mouth shut.

Your grandmother's saris, your grandfather's collection of coins, his stack of old notes and shelf of endless books. You ponder over them for a while – can't keep them in the apartment, can't leave them here, can't give it to the poor. So you take pieces of them, the surroundings watch as you cut a piece of the sari, graciously take the rare coins, put them in a box to add it to your journal, leaving the books as it is. The books which were so preciously kept over the years, your grandfather underlining the words he would later conjure in memories, unable to read again, unable to focus on anything. Some books he wrote and published himself... you can't even be bothered to read the titles.

Everything left will be tossed out, the furniture broken into pieces - to get the necessary wood, to make something new from the old. Pieces from your grandfather's favorite rocking chair, his bookshelf, your grandmother's stool, the big wooden clock , will merge together to form a modern piece of furniture. Will they lose themselves? Will they recognize themselves? Each other? Oh to be torn apart and then recycled. Only those parts that are useful…

The rain is pouring heavily outside, you have a train to catch after visiting the dead, you wish the rain would wash you off of your sins, your guilt and all your memories ...but it doesn't. So when you get in the car, wet from the downpour, smelling like the house, the backyard and the old books - you say your final goodbye. Someone else would come and take care of things, you're done with the past.

But when you dream of home, you see the old house of your childhood, untouched and full of life, it's the same backyard, the same garden, the same balcony, the same walls, the same clock, the same chairs and tables... everything you left behind.

It's gonna haunt you forever... because everything was alive.

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