What if the mansion which I abide mirrors me by more than just it's contents?
The welcome halls, where I meet many, are sunlit. The stairwells, which take me to different mental levels are a bit cluttered, short and rarely used. They windows into my soul, though creaky when opened, shed light on long hallways. I stroll along these halls as I ponder.
As I muse. As I create realities, which are shadowed in my existence. In fact, there are ceiling high bookshelves full of cataloged memory. In each book is a true to happenstance account of what I sensed, mentally and physically. Though these books aren't entirely non-fiction, they hold fast to my personal encounters.
But what lays behind the book shelves? What lies under the well worn hallway rugs? Under the ridge-backed stairwell, what makes up the bone structure?
I confess I rarely take the time to personally attend to maintenance, so I have little idea of what keeps this estate up to living standard?
Now that I consider the fact that the house could be unsound, I am nearly convinced it will come toppling down on top of me. But, such is the way of doubt; once he has sunk his sharp claws into you, it will be a struggle to loosen his grip.
If this house was true to appearance, than the old oaken frame would have long since burnt and decayed. So, what then, structures this place? What holds my being, my memory, my hopes, my dreams, my loves, my passions, and my fears together? What structures me? What keeps my levels from caving in even with so much heavy junk scattered around? The obvious solution would be to ask the handyman. He seems all to familiar with my layout.
Where is he? I often see him trotting to and fro across the gardens and up into attics. Yet, when I need to demand something of him, he seems to have up and disappeared. Even his incessant noise of thumping and hammering seems to have stopped right as I need him.
Well then. He must know what he is doing. Does that give me license to ignore the topic of my structure? Because my pillars stand strong right now, is it acceptable for me to take that for granted?
No. I think not. I think I must follow him. I think I must learn his trade. I think I must be willing to leave my porcelain cups and clean furniture to tighten greasy pipes and dust out long forgotten attics. I think he has asked me, without word, to join him.
Perhaps one day I'll find myself bold enough to step out into other's houses. Perhaps I'll have the privilege of teaching them to do handiwork too.