You know those feel-good, homey, comforting kind of homes? The ones with bright felt couches—the orange ones, or the yellow—with old tapestries draped over the backs. Vinyl-covered walls, a record player spinning softly, tiny plants perched in the windowsills, some hanging. Old wood wall units, glass coffee tables, tall wooden bookshelves filled with the best books, and those Victorian rugs that somehow tie the whole room together. Oak side tables, a chandelier always dusted but still regal. Windows with benches to sit on during quiet Sunday mornings, coffee in hand. Winding stairs, arched doorways, high ceilings that make you feel like a queen.
I step inside and it’s like someone has muted the world. The air thickens; time itself feels paused. One foot in front of the other, I try to anchor myself to reality, but everything feels staged. The lights flicker—bright, dim, bright again—the chandelier seems to sway, cupboards open and close on their own. The ground spins. Or maybe it is me spinning. For a fleeting moment, I feel weightless, perfectly in tune with the space around me. Then it stops. Silence. Stillness.
I stumble forward into what feels like a layer just beyond reality. The curtains peel back, and I peek through, feeling everything at once. My head grows faint. I fake agreement. I beg a closed heart for forgiveness. I tell unnecessary lies. I smile at nothing and at everything simultaneously. The room darkens, leaving only dim light seeping through the curtains. I am in a trance. The walls close in, just slightly, enough to remind me of my own vulnerability.
For a moment I scratch at my wrinkled skin, angry at life for giving me signs of aging. And yet, I savor the weightlessness. It is rare to glimpse the true beauty of life, to feel the precious brevity of time. Few are allowed to peel back these curtains of reality, even for a moment, to dive into the layers beneath the surface, beyond the rigid, barren world we inhabit.
Perhaps it makes me a little mad. Perhaps it makes me a little broken. But that doesn’t bother me. All the best people I’ve known carried a touch of madness, a shard of brokenness. It is the hurt and the imperfection of the past that drives us, connects us on a level beyond words. It shapes us. And it is that connection that allows us to recognize the echoes of pain in the eyes of friends and foes alike.
