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I can hear every noise this house makes, supported by a skeleton of steel. The termites eat away at the foundation and it's only a matter of time. And your family crest hangs on a frame in the hallway next to a painting that you made when you were 10, and each brush stroke glares a reminder of a simpler time when we were more concerned with living life than with what it meant. Enveloping and circling my mental state. This house is empty; every sound reverberates. So I plug my ears and try not to communicate but it has taken hold. I keep a notebook under my desk so I can write all my dreams down, or at least what of them I remember when I wake. Spending hours scanning the pages for some indication that these dreams and life might somehow intertwine. Because more than anything, I just want to believe it; that we all end up just where we should. And we can all have faith in the decisions we make under shelters of concrete and wood. So I evaluate the options I'm presented with. Navigate these notions of embarrassment. Long to learn “are my laments legitimate?” but it has taken hold.