I smelled the quiet breeze of the house, and I giggled in happiness as I felt warmth in the air. A House far from the cities, A House far from any wars and conflicts, it felt amazing, as I stepped in, it began to rain on the rusting pipes. Perhaps it's a comfortable place, a place so comforting that time didn't change, the clocks tick in strange rhythmic patterns, I began thinking of ways to comprehend my happiness, so i walked like I've drunken 10 beers, towards a carved wooden chair and still usable table, worn out by time, perhaps that chair experienced things more than me, perhaps it indulge itself in memories, and in time.
When was it? When was I able to remember their faces? It has been years since I have seen them, I wonder what they are up to? I hope they're doing great. When was I again? Oh, I forgot, I should turn the lights on, the electricity seems to work here unknowingly, the lights flickered in a random pattern. The lights gave light in the part of the house, that I was unable to see.
The dark didn't really change things, but at least I could see, the dark spots on the house felt more comfortable than the warm breeze trapped in its colorful contrast of stone and wood. I wanted to feel it, I wish to hug it, I wish to kiss it, I wish to indulge in it. But being trapped in the process of Logic, that wouldn't bring a new contrast of time. As I roamed around the house, I glanced at the light outside the window, it was warm, it was cold, it was changing, but it felt like it was deep and painful. But I enjoyed it, I didn't waste any drop, as I walked towards it, voices began to ripple in my head, as I tried to scream.
I didn't.
It was the sound of screams, but where did it appear? Perhaps it was from this place, as I thought that going back to the room earlier, it was the same room, it felt Empty. It felt full. It felt too full for its own good. I placed my hand and feel every inch of its craftsmanship, I also feel each of its memories, a child eating, a mother cooking, a sister reading a book, and a father who felt like a feather, is it real? Is it hate? What is a feather, a light object from a chicken? It's memories, brushing through my body, like it's cleaning me. The dust that piled up floated upward, it didn't spread, it didn't scream, it didn't change its form, it simply floated upwards. As I glanced at the ceiling, the dust formed a name, Aleksandr Rehnholz, whose name is that? I glanced at all of the dust in the house, and asked "Who might that be?".
The dust was silent, as my attention began to lower, all the dust, pointed at me. Was it my name? My thoughts labeled themselves like a book in a library, the name Aleksandr Rehnholz is my name? Have I really forgotten my name? Was that really my name? Who gave me that name? Was it a comrade? Was it himself? Who am I? The thoughts in my mind wish to grow their curiosity; therefore, I settled into the carved wooden chairs. I glanced at the time, and there was no hand to determine the time, but it was morning. As I comforted my back against the chair, I lean in. It was trapped, my feet were unable to move, my back won't budge, and my eyesight was drowning in darkness.
I saw a person in the darkness, a faceless pale face, no facial features, I walked towards it, I was drawn to it. I reached my hand to its face, I touched it, I indulged my hands in its face, I rubbed my hand in its face, a feeling of memories, or perhaps time. It was faceless, but it had a face. It was beautiful and handsome.
I cared for it. I gave it love, but why be faceless? The Void of my thoughts engulfed us both, the faceless and I. As my eyes caught light, I stared at the blank ceiling, and it changed; the contrast between light and shadow was fluid. Is it raining? No, the darkness swayed because of my doubt. I glanced towards the stairs. But it wasn't going up, it was going up. I remembered that there was upstairs, but no one told me about it. I touched it. it was the wall. My mind knew everything, but didn't tell me. How could I trust my own? I continued, touching it. It was like grasping a memory. Fading, yet recovering. I felt it, I rubbed my fingertips in it. It was a wooden wall, the moisture of it. Gave me warmth within these walls. But not all of them were wooden.
The wooden walls gave me warmth. I feel a relentless wave of hope as I turn around to completely feel the wooden wall. Perhaps this is my greatest strength. This feeling of emotion was alien to me. As I continued to bathe in its warmth, the more I was disgusted by it. Why would I stay there? Why would I let myself be boiled alive? As I glanced towards the door, I saw a man enter the room, confused like me.
He smelled the quiet breeze of the house, and he giggled with a smile as he felt warmth in the air. A House far from the cities, A House far from any wars and conflicts, it must've felt amazing, as he stepped in, it unknowingly began to rain. It's a comfortable place, a place so comforting that time didn't need to change, the clocks continued to tick in strange rhythmic patterns. He began thinking of ways to comprehend his own happiness like me, but I would already be lost, so he walked like it was his greatest day, towards the inside of the same house, perhaps the house experienced things more than him, it indulged itself in memories, and emotions.
Why is that person here? He feels familiar. I wanted to talk to him, but as I walked closer there was no one. He is still here in this house. He seemed lost, he seemed to be happy, he seemed to have hope, and life. Memories of this place are like a mind. The more you stay here, the more you indulge in its beauty and ugliness.
I hate myself. I love everything in this house. I hate the feeling, I wish to melt in its presence. I wish to feel it again, today, tomorrow, and forever. I wish to sleep for a moment. I wish to eat. How long have I been straying?
As my eyes caught light, I stared at the blank ceiling, and it changed; the contrast between light and shadow was fluid. Is it raining? No, the darkness swayed because of my doubt. I glanced towards the stairs. But it wasn't going up, it was going up. I remembered that there was upstairs, but no one told me about it. I touched it. it was the wall. My mind knew everything, but didn't tell me. It feels familiar, it feels like it already happened to me. Have I been awake this time? Perhaps I was never awake? How long did I sleep?
Tell me, myself and I. Will I feel something great? Something beautiful? Something where my eye could melt with if? Do I see myself? Am I really Aleksandr Rehnholz? The year is 1945? But wasn't yesterday 1961? Time is weird and ugly. Like me, why would I appear? Is my existence really the only illusion here? Am I really real?