What would it be like to stand in that house? If I had the walls and shelves were reachable. If I could have different hands and my palms have longer fingers. Or if my face is altered to the point I am not who I once was.
Would I smile then? Would I feel this sense of joy rush over my bones. My skin be warm and weightless. Do I let it get to my head, the person that I finally am? And then I look at the mirror.
That house is not mine, this mirror is. And it's showing me someone else who feels the touch on their cheek and their body heavy against my gravity. Time and time again, the imagery will fade away. Gone will be that home that I idealize. Yet I hope it comes back. Despite it all, that desire lives in my wall.










