People leave homes behind. They move away. I wonder if their stories ever do.
I wonder if, as much as we believe, have we ever been powerful enough to rip memories off the walls that boast them.
Or, is it just an illusion, yet another desperate attempt at gaining power over time?
Will we ever know? Do we even care?
I believe when homes are abandoned, they aren’t really left alone. They are left behind with tales, hiding underneath the faces that dwell in the random patterns of their marble floors.
They are left behind with faces, with eyes full of questions, and mouths too numb to answer.
And, each time you feel like someone’s following you, it’s often just an old memory, trapped in a plain white wall somewhere, waiting to be lived again.