The Cottage

There on a hill, half covered in white, I see a cottage. Black fumes dance in the cold wind as they ascend up through a moss-covered chimney. The sound of crackling timber pierces through the silent sleep of this forgotten place. No being is in sight, no bird flapping its wings, nothing is around, except for an evergrowing sense of belonging.

This pile of wood, built wholeheartedly with passion and devotion, in a barren landscape, surrounded by a blanket of mountains, emanates warmth. It pleads to be discovered, observed. It whispers to me to enter, to learn its secrets. Yet, somehow, I already know what I will find. Its as if I have already been here. As if this was my home, or is it still?

I tremble as I turn the door knob. Its cold and it burns, but the heat from the other side rests on the wood, inviting me inside. I accept and walk in, with a smile on my face like that of a fragile newborn cradled in sheets of attention. One bed, a chair and a lit fireplace, is all there is to see. So simple, so mundane, yet so eloquent.

This place, I remember. I lived here, grew inside these four walls which I, myself had built. I had tucked away the adjectives, the colours, the music, impregnated an idea into a fragile setting. I gave warmth to the only recluse I constructed, made a beacon out of it, a refuge to escape to, when in need of reflection. This is where I belong, yet I doubt.

What if  willows and oaks, butterflies and chirping robins, a river and a carpet of jaded grass beheld my decaying household? Is it wrong to dream of such a place, where it is not the home that gives comfort but what lies outside of it? Maybe it is time to burn the cottage on the hill, and build another one, in a garden, not in ice.

And the door shall never close and lock the heat inside, for the warmth shall come from all the flapping of the wings and the whistling of the wind and the gurgling of the water flowing downstream. For a symphony shall be played, and all listeners invited, and for them to paint on the walls with colours of their choice they are encouraged. 

For the cottage, which is my soul, shall be rebuilt with adjectives and colours and a new dogma written on the front door; 'From the ashes we are born and to it we will return. So do not doubt, but rejoice and  find pleasure in the simple things in life, for what is more beautiful than to live and feel all that which we are part of'.