Empty In Every Aspect

We enter into this world believing that everybody wants us, that we as a person are irresistible, but this pride is snubbed once we come into contact with the harsh reality of this world.

   A car of enormous value driven by a man of impressive social stature turns into the neighborhood, speeds along the silent roads, and nudges into an oversized, tidy carport. I can see the headlights flicker off, the driver emerge from the expensive mode of transport, the slam of a door, and the sound of heavy footsteps strutting into the shadows of the space. These footsteps halt at a door, a metal partition whose sole purpose is to greet those who dare to enter into such a haughty household. Those who live there are wealthy and sybaritic in their pursuits of happiness, and they promenade the streets of this neighborhood with their noses high and their faces held in disgust. The wife, the worst of that clan, always goes out for an early morning jog before shipping her children off to a private school and wishing her husband well with a peck on his cheek. Once he leaves in that sumptuous vehicle of his, her ritual begins anew. I can see the man, the man who smiles incessantly and laughs vacuously, emerge into the house every single morning; I can hear their grunts from where she lays with her husband at night. He always departs once the sun begins to set, his clothes wrinkled and his hair messy, but that rosy smile of his always in perfect order.

   I want to say something, but I can’t. Humans are designed by a god, an omnipresent and compassionate being. Houses, though, are constructed according to a blueprint, drawn up by men whose resolve fluctuates with the rise and fall of stocks. I was put together by the hands of cheap labor, who cursed when I refused to take form and prayed when their deadlines were nearing. I didn’t understand their mouths - how they could be utilized for both godly purposes and devilish curses. As they nailed together my boards and installed my top-of-the-line features, I pleaded silently that they would include a mouth somewhere on me so that I could voice my opinions and scream out when they hurt me. Nails don’t exactly feel good going into you - the Messiah whom they praised during times of turmoil would know - and men standing on your shingled scalp can cause you to wish that you’d never taken form, that your foundation had never been laid. I understood though, even without God-given features, that I was meant to last. Devastation would never reign upon me, for I had been built to withstand even the most brutal of disasters.

   And so, with an insuperable urge to speak and pride within my boards, I was constructed along with twenty-nine other houses who all stood in my shadow. I was the largest house in this row of new houses, the showpiece of a developer’s ambition, and also boasted an exorbitant price tag of a mere few million dollars. Upon the final determination of my price, I was engrossed in a sort of hauteur, a sort of scornful pride amongst my brothers and sister who’d risen with me. I was the best and would always stand to be - why must my impression be trampled by these inferior dwellings which surrounded me on either side?

   A sign signaling I was for sale was hammered into the sod surrounding me sometime in autumn. I had been pleased to know that the pain which had encumbered me for six months was now over, and that a nice family would breathe life into me shortly. I had envisioned a father who donned business suits and swanky ties, and a mother who wore beautiful dresses matched with modish heels. I had envisioned children tracking mud through my halls, playing hide-and-seek throughout my rooms, and being brought up in American comfort and suburban security. It would be a pleasant time, and I would stand to see and hear it all. I would be there for births, for deaths, for graduations, for teenage parties that got out of hand, business rendezvouses where fine wine was offered and cheeses adorned the serving trays. Money would flow throughout me, and each time additional currency was added the family would smile. They would love me for my elegance, for my luxury, for my features in which they could boast. They would adore every square inch of me, and take pleasure in the fact that both their lives and the paper money that ran it were secure.

   The next few seasons were lonely, fraught by few visits and little interest in my luxury. My brothers and sisters were soon cradling families from every gamut of society. There were young parvenus, those who had taken advantage of the capitalistic system and succeeded in their attempt. These men and women partied often and drank incessantly in the style of Gatsby, for they were so acquired with the taste of champagnes and wines imported from France that they  I didn’t understand why nobody wanted me. Wasn’t my kitchen inspired by gourmet European restaurants? Didn’t my media room feature perhaps the biggest screen on which to watch movies and other film of all time? Weren’t my bathrooms decorated with top-of-the-line amenities, my bedrooms spacious, and my garages capable of containing yachts? I couldn’t comprehend the reason why at night I sat alone in the dark and during the day I sat ashamed amidst my brothers and sisters who were inhabited.

   Then, one day, a visitor appeared. I had seen this man before, for nobody could forget his blazing red hair and freckled face. His visage before had been that of utter excitement, sheer ecstasy, which only appears upon a man’s face when he is shrouded in greed. I had noticed that he didn’t looked at my brothers and sisters the same then - for, he watched them rise into the air with an indifferent expression on his face. When he had turned and looked upon my completion, the line of his lips curved and transformed itself into a selfish smile. He would stand their aimlessly for minutes, his eyes wondering off into the distance, as he observed the cheap labor assemble my many pieces. And then, he would receive a call and draw his phone hastily from his pocket. He would frown, turn towards his Mercedes, and drive speedily out of this development. The cheap labor would celebrate upon his departure, often with beer and raucous laughter. Their lives were shrouded superficially.

   Now, the man was expressionless. He staggered slowly to my front door, and opened it without his prior excitement. I could feel his feet wander throughout my halls, and the heavy soles of his sophisticated shoes tickled me. I wanted to laugh and have this man laugh with me, but it was impossible for me to emit any sort of emotion and I deduced that this man was beyond the brink of laughter. He had crossed the threshold between utter joy and disappointment many seasons ago. Now, he stood in my halls and breathed heavily. He ascended my stairs with a laggard pace, and once he’d climbed to the top he punched my wall. Oh, it hurt terribly!

   “D****t,” he cried out. “Why did I ever design such a stupid house?”

   That day brought me a hurting I’d never experienced before. I had felt physical pain - when I was assembled and now with a gaping hole in my wall - but that day cursed me with emotional pain, and though I attempted to purge it by crying, I couldn’t. Houses don’t have the ability to cry, though at times we wish we could. We all wish we could.

   The man had stayed a while longer, and then left without even the slightest hint of optimism. I knew now what bothered him, for I’d collected broken phrases underneath his breath. My boards shook, my shutters trembled, and the shingles atop my scalp quenched in anguish.

   “This damn house,” the man had uttered, “costs too much, nobody can afford it.”’

   I wanted to sink into the mud, to have a tornado come and rip me from foundation. The pride I had once felt for my exuberant features diminished, and I began to despise the luxuries that had been sewn into the fabric of my existence. The greed of man and the hands of cheap, foreign labor had succeeded in their attempt, but their attempt was beyond the aspirations of all. Suburbia didn’t want me, and without legs to move, I stood there as my brothers and sisters bragged to me about what family felt like. They boasted that it was peaceful and loving - I hadn’t a clue what that meant. All I knew of was seclusion, of exile. Nobody looked upon me again with the same face as the man who’d watched me spring from the grass and rise into the air. Nobody ever came to visit, to provoke energy as the men who had constructed me. Nobody even played in my yards. The children, the youth of wealth, all stayed indoors. They refrained from the heat of the sun, the feeling of it against skin. They refrained from the joys of throwing a ball or playing tag, and instead chose to indulge in games found on a screen.

      My grass exploded into an unmaintained, green heap; my pathway cracked into pebbles; my interior begins the slow and painful process of deterioration. The seasons pass, cars speed by, and nobody breathes life into me as I hoped they would. I am a lifeless house, empty in every aspect. I feel myself weakening, as if one day I will collapse in on myself. There will be a temporary alter then made of dust,  it will rise into the air as I once did, but then it will diminish into nothing. A quick reflection of my life, of my presence, of my shape, but it will mean nothing.

   That will be many seasons away, though. I remain a solid structure, bound by chains and the restrictions of my foundation. I am a slave to the greed of humans, and though I was purged from their desires, I still remain within their clutches.

   The sun rises, the cars pull out of their driveways, and the school buses appear and ship the neighborhood children off to school. Soon, the man appears at the doorstep of the house across the street from me. He is greeted warmly, welcomed into the household, and is soon thrown in a whirling wind of torrid love. I hear their friendly chitchat, their garrulous grunts, and then their gentle snores as they are whisked into the arms of sleep.

   I stand here, alone, and wonder: What was it that I found so admirable in humans in the first place?