The Man and The House

The man sat solidly in the splintering chair. A rusty heart beat stoically in his battered chest. Strands of grey and black hair stuck to his sweaty cheeks and brow. The deep creviced wrinkles of his face, held promise of a deep, putrid, aroma.

The house itself was quite another picture. The sun was beating down upon the whitewashed walls and streaming through the windows, pouring a glowing light upon the wooden floor and white painted, furniture. Bright throws festooned the sofa and row upon row of books took up much of the shelf space. That space left over was given to charming Mediterranean ornaments, pretty, but not much more than that.

The house and the man. A dark island in a sea of light.

He hadn't always been this way. Those books hinted at the alert and thirsty mind that had once driven, a young excited and energetic, young man, who took delight in the streaming light of the sun, feeling his feet alight the stairs two at a time as he dashed from a below to above. To share the light with the lady he loved.

Now, he's a dark island, a heavy, yet unsteady presence in this room of light.

The house has been built brick by brick at the direction of an inspired architect. Just let us get the shapes and the lines. And most of all the light, just let us get that right and this humble house will be a place, a palace for the mind.

And so mumbling, and grumbling the builders placed brick after unorthodox brick. They set the windows at unorthodox angles and built rooms with no corners and nooks that appeared from nowhere. This crazy architect. What did he know? They grumbled, but just a little less than before. As the final features were glued and hammered and screwed the grumbles reluctantly faded away as, ever so slowly, the builders felt a creeping awe at what they had produced. They may even have begun to feel gratitude to be involved in such an undertaking.

The man moved in as a boy, and his heart took the house as its own, as only the heart of a child can. Years were passed reading in the unique light of the sun Games, in new and mysterious worlds were played under the throws, and in the nooks, and behind the furniture.

As he grew his insatiable desire to learn did not dissipate. The books and the lights and his friends. These were his companions and his quest to understand.

Years passed and years passed, and he talked, and he read and he contemplated.

And ever so slowly he began to realise the biggest thing that he'd been missing. He didn't understand, he couldn't understand Enaptured in these beautiful walls with all that he could wish, he could not understand.

His love for his books started to die, a slow death, as he came to, despise the cruel sunlight playing across the floor and the wall. His wrinkled skin belied his youthful mind, but told the story of an ageing and dying Spirit.

What joy and hope could be found he wondered. The pressing heavy weight of despair, formed a depression in his neck. He'd had enough of being so dark in this cruelly dancing light.

Creaking joint by joint, he inched himself out of the chair and stepped forward. Inching towards the door. And he opened the door. And the wind and the rain battered at his skin, and slowly he began to laugh. Stepping out into the dark dark storm, slipping and falling and laughing and crying. He fell upon his knees and in an almost manic cackle, he shouted out.

I think I understand, a little more.