Saturday, November 1, 2008

{THE HOUSE IS NOT A HOME}

I wake up in a house that is not mine, I remember. The house feels borrowed. It feels like a place that I have never been to before. I wake up in a place that looks like the den. There're all these wooden things on the wall. Wooden furniture, televisions, even the clock is made of wood. I get up off of the couch and walk towards another room that I am not familiar with. It's the kitchen, with all its elaborate paisley looking things. Doilies, hand towels and cute little salt and pepper shakers. It's a woman's kitchen, you can tell by the colors. I'm not sure if much cooking takes place in this kitchen because it is immaculate. Every possible place that there would be dirt and grime is spotless. Not one crumb from the toaster oven. Not a splash of eggs on the stove or milk spots on the counter from a careless poured bowl of cereal. I walk into the next room and its a very nice garage with an old car in it. A refrigerator with beer inside is stacked to the brim. There is a pool table with balls looking like they were in mid game.