My Humble House
Most of us are so busy constructing and remodeling the
magnificent building, which we call our identity, that
few of us notice its fragmentation until we're
impaired by its disassembly. We lovingly acquire rooms and
carefully create partitions as our edifice develops; and most of
us ignore the broken foundation, the neglected areas, and the
stolen parts. We sacrifice materials and donate apartments for
others, in the groundless belief that repairs or replacements
will always restore our private dwelling. Eventually we learn how
changes have distorted us, how acts have tilted us, how losses
have weakened us. Our pretty building is not what it was,
nor is it what we intended it to become. Our cherished manor has
fragments scattered throughout many lives, and
amidst our many affairs; leaving parts in other houses, and
trails to other estates. Piecemeal fragmentation
can be attributed to many incidents, from wars and careers to
crises and families, but almost no one is cohesive, no residence
is unified, no habitation is integrated. In time we realize just
how disjointed we've become; but the truth is that the vacant
wreck that we've become was always there. When the windows
glistened and the doorknobs gleamed, we thought our humble
home would be exceptional and enduring. We imagine that our
now dilapidated villa, despite its sagging floors and leaking
roof, will mean something beyond itself. We conceived grand
dreams and plotted larger schemes in the not unreasonable
expectation that our great deeds shall preserve us beyond decay
... shall make our noble mansion into a monument for the
inspiration of young innocents ... but we are only rearranging
the dust. Do not begrudge the ashes that were once like you.
by Pan Perdu
... who is a former soldier and VA counselor; this work has been
excerpted from Fragmentations, a book in progress.
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