A short piece.
There is a house. It is a house not of loneliness, but of solitude. A house of everything, and of nothing.
The house was outside the city, yet, not quite past the suburbs. It laid quietly on a corner, balanced perfectly on the urban equivalent of twilight.
The owners knew the kind of children that came here. Some kids were looking for something. Acknowledgment, the feeling of, not understanding, but of empathy. The warmth of an old friend.
Some other kids where looking for nothing at all, desperate for quietness. A search of privacy and respect. Some kids still need to figure out what they are looking for.
Does the life of the remembered and the buzz of civilization call to you? Or do you desire an uneventful existence, down quietly by the pine tree.
If you ever need to find out, there is a house where you can go to. A house of not of loneliness, but of solitude. A house of everything, and a house of nothing; and to a few, a house of balance.
Amor fati,
Atlas.
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