When does a house become a home
and more poignantly, when does a home turn into a house. They say every house
has a heart and one has got to listen to it very carefully to hear it beat…
hear it above the sounds of laughter, din of brooding silence, screams of
rebellion, cries of heart break of its occupants. You learn to match your heart
beat with that of the space around you. And at that precise moment cement,
sand, brick, paint, furniture, fixture ceases to exist. You resonate with that beating
heart… your house becomes a home. Memories are born, which hang not just as
framed pictures on painted walls, but hang in the air that you breathe.
Occupants grow, leave, die but the memories remain, holding onto some other
time, refusing to skip a beat, keeping it warm under a blanket of emotions.
A more difficult question to
answer is, if at all, when does a home become a house? When do these memories
turn sour and the air poisonous? When does the beat fall off rhythm? When do you
hear it no more? Perhaps we all know the answer or can atleast hazard a guess..
Perhaps best to avoid the question. Perhaps to each his own.
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