A bit of writing...
Mar. 6th, 2012 06:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mistajThere is a house, not on a deserted hill, but right there in your street. This house is full of negativity and it is devoid of love. It had inhabitants, but they were not people such as you and I would know. They looked quite normal from the outside, one tall, one small, one barely there. But once they were inside the house, they were transformed, as all who entered were, to shells of creatures.
Within the house nobody could thrive. All endeavours were doomed to failure. All hope dispelled. But for these broken creatures, the house was home. The gloom comforted their tortured souls, and as they wandered the landings and entered the almost bare rooms, they felt at ease.
One of them, it was hard to tell which one in the darkness (for only a tiny sliver of natural light crept through the newspapered up windows) was sitting on an undressed mattress, staring at their feet in the low yellow lighting.
Noises on the stairs meant one of his companions would soon be joining him. Eventually, all three of them would end up in this large dull room, sitting on the grimy mattress and staring at their feet.
Sometimes one of them would light a fire, but it would not be anything normal people would call a fire. It would be a small spark, and then a damp crackle as newspapers burnt through and left flame enough for anything they had managed to salvage that day for fuel.
And that was their life and how they lived it, for we don’t all have the same ideals…
Within the house nobody could thrive. All endeavours were doomed to failure. All hope dispelled. But for these broken creatures, the house was home. The gloom comforted their tortured souls, and as they wandered the landings and entered the almost bare rooms, they felt at ease.
One of them, it was hard to tell which one in the darkness (for only a tiny sliver of natural light crept through the newspapered up windows) was sitting on an undressed mattress, staring at their feet in the low yellow lighting.
Noises on the stairs meant one of his companions would soon be joining him. Eventually, all three of them would end up in this large dull room, sitting on the grimy mattress and staring at their feet.
Sometimes one of them would light a fire, but it would not be anything normal people would call a fire. It would be a small spark, and then a damp crackle as newspapers burnt through and left flame enough for anything they had managed to salvage that day for fuel.
And that was their life and how they lived it, for we don’t all have the same ideals…
