Only Home

There were two houses that exist on the dead, dried marshes replacing the accustomed setting of origin. The second was his, forlorn and disconnected from the standard; the first, was from the owner, almost the same with the interior and exterior, only exhibiting the facade of power with right humility. The houses were made from the dark spectrum; old and ragged furniture present the condition. One blatant sameness could be seen inside, in front, behold two bulky upholstery in different faded prints for welcoming appeal. The entirety of the background was supposed for harvest, but the tragedy of its inability to produce growth reflects its decaying occupation.

The plan was to visit and rest in the second house, with him and the owner, along with few certain usual companions. Regarded as a habit, it was a trivial demeanor of entering. The two men were already staying in the second house before our attendance were confirmed, their assumed profession lax in submitting to its function to its actual process, preparing for the tradition. I, along with two usual companions, sat on the couch and revived the peace of mind. The carelessness of it all, disregarding the natural apprehension of upcoming sounds the same time as being absorbed with the faithful discourse erupting amusement and proper seriousness, announced the reality of unwelcomed appearances of those that were not a part of this belongingness.

Four or more had arrived, neither a usual companion nor a common comrade, intruded inside with the manner of releasing the sense of being invited to this act. We had not touched anything aside from receiving each of the others' sensibilities in verbal expression; the strangers went over the table by the door and started to drink and eat, as if commemorating their constituency. It distorted the phenomenon, the misbehavior resulted to the comeuppance of secrecy, disengaging the original format. It was then that I noticed that he returned to the first house.

It was his supposed house, but was just not. I went out, followed the path that connected the two houses, and entered the first house. It felt rather smaller than the other one, but I saw him on the couch, lying and contemplating. It was painful to see the irrelation and irrelevance; I realized we didn't actually had time of our own as it was diversified by this order. I lowered myself and held his hand, put it on my beating heart... to feel home.

"I surmise it is the time to move, you have been preoccupied by yours," he said. Looking at me, it was the first time that this has been represented by this; I have felt love to the entirety, the exposition represented it clearly. I have felt home and thus, I smiled. But it was time to go home, the beginning. This was how progression was realized, I was ready to go back.

Followed by the usual companion outside, I went out as he followed. He smiled as well, as I awkwardly faced this deviating familiarity and bade goodbye. I called him in a peculiar version of his name, with its uniqueness, and ran gracefully through the white mud, through the grasses and to the cemented hindrances. I felt reincarnated and alive.