The Deserted House

28/03/07 Andres Angeles Yr 8C


Some say it’s star crossed, others say it’s inhabited by ghosts, lost souls, sunk in their own pain and unable to let go of their long lost lives. I say it’s magic.

As I came to the rotten fence, the combination of smells and sounds struck me softly and rapidly. It was so sudden I involuntarily stopped dead in my tracks and enjoyed of the now deserted establishment. It had once been a glorious house, made for a rich family who’s name I cannot recall since it is not mentioned for many years now.
Recovering from the shock I moved forward and pushed the broken door. It flung open with the most subtle push, something which had surprised me the first day I visited the abandoned mansion. The door gave way to the main entrance which was better preserved than the fence itself, but still quite degraded.
As I passed the wooden fence, the golden brilliance of the dried out garden under the sunlight struck my eyes, something which never failed to cheer me up. It was because of the garden that I’d come to think of this place as magical. The plants had suffered terrible deaths because of the lack of water, but they still kept this joyful spirit, like a little puppy waiting for you to throw a rubber ball, a piece of meat or even a simple woodstick, it wouldn’t matter, because the game would be equally fun, and it would be kept in your memory for as long as you lived, for eternity.
I never saw the insides of the house, but I do not regret it. The outside was enough for a thirteen year old, for an eighty year old. It made you stop and listen. Silence. The sound would always be nule but peaceful, pure and profound.
Every time I stopped and listened, I could not help but smile and think about it all, about every hidden detail that I may never unveil, and these was of course, perfection. A simple word which can easily be described, but why perfection? The answer to this is simple, because perfection is not a straight line, neither can it be the roundest of cirlces or by that matter the cleanest of tables. Perfection is the the flower with missing petals, blown out by the wind, but untouched by the harmful hands of those who keep hate in their souls. It is the dried out plant which keeps it beauty within each leaf, worn away by the beings which feed on it.

And that of course is why this place became so special to me, because it’s magic, because it’s peaceful, because it’s perfect.