Across the
street is a white painted house, a cozy little cottage. Someone lives there,
someone loves that house, but not me. I look at that house, and I know it’s not
for me. I know that someone wanted it, someone loved it, but I don’t. It’s
pretty, but it’s not me, and it’s not for me. My house will need to be bigger,
to hold what’s mine, and offer space for me to “work”. My house will not be
white like the clouds, or blue like the sky. I want colors that play off each
other, and are not so shallow and bright, but not dark enough to hide every
crumb of dirt.
My house
would be taller; not a tower in the sky but high enough to rival a tree. My
house would be on a quiet street, where every driver passing by is a neighbor,
not some stranger in a hurry to pass through. I never wanted a white fence,
unless it was a little nook where I grew my garden, and kept the deer out. It’s
a nice house, a quaint little cottage. I wouldn’t mind spending the night, but
not every night. Too simple, too small, too loud, too…not me.
