the story house

it was one of those houses that had a story. it used to be two stories. but the last owner decided to downsize, they had a big family. one that had to eat breakfasts on rotations. one of the kids grew up to be an author-turned-recluse who now lives in the mountains of Montana. their daughter lizzie is getting her doctorate in humanitarian relief. she believes the world could be a better place. and their youngest son jake just had their 2nd child, unfortunately he has had to remarry because his first wife kirsty had died during childbirth. it was a tragedy that he still feels when no one else is looking. he carries around a handkerchief and claims he has a chronic nasal drip, but everyone he meets can see the scar on his heart, it is a lot bigger to those who don’t know him because for some reason, pain is easier to hide over time with close friends who have gotten used to. i think we hide a lot of things. like the house. there are stories you wouldn’t believe that happened there, but you would have to live in the house to find the stories. you can’t read a book about them. they wanted to chronicle all of the pain and redemption that happened there, but all of the past owners ended up boycotting the publisher who decided against the work being put to paper, they cited that it was because of some minute clause in their document about restoring history. everyone in town knew why it really happened…

we all have our stories that we would like to hide. that we would like to keep secret. that still keep the lights on all night. that still keep the creeky boards around. but these stories are important to let out. for our development. for the development of others. and to share and to promote intimacy and vulnerability. without these stories there is no connection. no truth exchanged.


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