nostalgia allergy

October 22, 2011

it’s in the wee hours of the morning when the truth hums one of the most brutal of lullabies; in the quiet skeleton that remains, the house is now too big for us to occupy.

the little corners we used to ignore, suddenly loom in front of our eyes as cobwebs of yesterday occupy the spaces in eerie but beautiful patterns. the doors creak louder, as if in vain mockery, as if to say over and over how much time has elapsed and how, no matter how much regret we inject in specific intervals for the time we wasted, they can never be taken back and will remain hormonal snapshots subject to human error and prejudice that will dictate our future choices. the walls crumble, but this is not apparent to the eye since termites creep in from the inside, giving off a facade of a sturdy infrastructure which in real time is sagging little by little as it struggles to remain upright with its brittle bones. and all at once, the rooms expand as silence begin to settle, replacing the warm conversations they used to carry. now, applications are no longer just accessory items of the household but have become a secret sanctuary when the dinner table and the patio prove to be unbearable and strange.

when did we stop coming home to each other?

have we decided to imitate our shelter, always leaving the lights on even when nobody’s home, out of fear of being infiltrated? or are we more like the walls–deteriorating from osteoporosis but still tenaciously standing out of practicality’s sake?


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