Abandoned houses make me feel a melancholy that I cannot fully comprehend sometimes.
The air smelled stale, and the old carpet seemed to want to disintegrate under each step I took. The spiders called this place home now, and they’d thoroughly left their mark in every dingy corner.
There was singed holes in the ceiling, telling me perhaps there’d been a fire. The old ceiling fan drooping sadly. And when I walked into what was once a living room, on the wall was a mural…it was a tree with some quote talking about love and family…and my heart ached thinking about who must’ve lived here last.
There is a sadness that grabs at you when you see a place that may have once been filled with holidays, and laughter, and cooking…in such disarray.
Liquor bottles scattered all over the floor, a caved in ceiling in a bedroom, the old linoleum kitchen peeling at every corner, and the stairs looking like they are slowly but surely rotting away so you don’t dare try to go up to the second floor.
The flowery wallpaper gave an oddly whimsical backdrop to the dirt covered carpet and cobwebs…
I thought it was beautiful in its own way…falling apart but still standing. Maybe someone might come along and say the place has good bones…it could be saved…but at the same time what can really be saved when every inch of the place would need to be ripped out. It would have to be gutted…you’d start from the foundation upwards. Any soul that there may be of the original house would be gone.
All things come to an end at some point I suppose.
