Find Your Own Way Out

 Find Your Own Way Out

What if things could be undone before you’d done them? Or after? What if you could be rewritten, and never know it? What’s beyond time, what’s beyond death? What lies out in the places between places, above and outside of places? What’s in the basement and the attic of God, the places he won’t look, won’t open up to us?

That’s what the note said in the empty, cold house. 

It’s handwriting was rushed, the letters looping and stretched, trying to run away from the page to somewhere else. Somewhere else beyond the ominous meaning, the fate of whoever wrote it. 

Water drip-drip-drips from the faucet. Trying to fill that uncomfortable, hungry silence. Something thumps in the attic, wood creaking before abating back into the quiet. 

There are things in the house. There is nothing in the house. 

Empty picture frames that you can feel unseen smiles from. If you’d run your hands across the walls there would be the essence of dust from a place lived in and weathered, but, they’re smooth and pale as something newborn. Untouched. 

The house between. The house undone. It feels like on a strong breeze, this will all blow away; vanish like dreams upon waking. In one window streams sunshine, another is an eye into starless, velvet darkness. 

I’ll leave you here, for now. You have the note. You have the quiet. The creaking upstairs. 

Find your own way out.