It is Spring, Winter not far gone in a place called home. Bushes yawning, shaking off their old layers of frost. Windows shining, shadows scattering away. Sunlight now dances to its own beat, taking over all things in its sight. Now venturing  inside, the walls light up in excitement. Finally another visitor to flaunt its beauty too. Colour everywhere, unsure of where to look. The house is demanding attention, and will do anything to get it, without it, the walls will crumble to the ground. Appearance is the most important thing otherwise life becomes dangerous like a  harmless stream, turning into a river of death. The house has no other purpose but to please.

Listen. The house is singing with such joy, in hopes to brighten up everyone’s day. Birds chirping, wind whistling, a tune so beautiful it’s hard to forget. The clocks chime to the rhythm the house has laid out, along with the wind and the birds. A song now created, one of pain, beauty, sorrow and love. DraListen. The house is singing with such joy, in hopes to brighten up everyone’s day. Birds chirping, wind whistling, a tune so beautiful it’s hard to forget. The clocks chime to the rhythm the house has laid out, along with the wind and the birds. A song now created, one of pain, beauty, sorrow and love. Drawing in people with its song like a siren singing to a pirate. Is it possible to walk away before becoming trapped, forever in its clutches? A clock has chimed out of rhythm to the rest, no longer as beautiful as it once was, guests begin to leave. Shame now brought upon the house. What is to be done? A new tune is needed to recover from this horrible mistake, but what rhythm can do that, if anything? The house has lost its primary function, it is unable to draw in guests like it once could, only after one mistake. Another mistake could destroy the house, leaving only broken parts behind.

It is beautiful, what else needs to be said. The brightness of the walls It is beautiful, what else needs to be said. The brightness of the walls reflects back the light from the sun, giving life to all within the house. That beauty that had first drawn in guests has been ignited once more. Crowds from far and wide wished to be a part of the beauty that had been regained. Wooden tiles that had been polished, probably minutes before, glowing as a reflection of the house’s emotion, the joy it felt in that moment. A prize that everyone wished they had, the perfect house. Envied by all, reflective surfaces all round, presenting the image of perfection. Not one speck of dust. Perfect  in every way, or at least that is what everyone believes, does that make it so? Questions remained with no answer.

Look, the rebirth has begun. Layers upon layers have been added again, to hide the deep secrets hidden within. The dust that once roamed the halls are being wiped away. Another coat of paint gets added to cover the cracks which have already started to form, like zits which appear on a teenagers face, resulting in a fountain of makeup. The annual cleaning/cleansing, nothing old is allowed to remain. The pain must be covered, no evidence of what used to be is allowed. Only new bright, shining objects can have a place in the perfect home.

Slowly, you start to notice the cranks in the walls that were drenched in paint, to hide the pain beneath. Wondering whether it was a facade that the house presented, you start realising that it was the same facade you present to others, in order to fit in. Who would have thought your life could be summed up in so many simple ways, if only there were simple ways to fix it. The small things that could only be noticed if you examined them in detail, but never noticed. The pain that gets buried under multiple layers, all different to the rest. You realise that just like the house you may look perfect and have tons of friends that want to be near you, but you are still a broken mess that needs to be hidden to fit in like the rest. To be perfect.

By Lea McTavish