#i was listening to mag 170 today and it reminded me of Piranesi in a way. this is inspired by both of them kinda?

[dearestaeneas]

On Humanity

Here are some things I know:

I am in the house.

I have always been in the house.

The house has always been here, and will be here long after I am decidedly Not.

Here are some things I do not know:

I do not know if this house belongs to me.

I do not know if I am alone.

I do not know if the house protects me.

Whatever the intentions of the house, I am provided for and I suppose this is a kind of protection. I do not feel protected. But I suppose you do not need to feel something for it to be true.

There are mirrors in the house. I do not like them. They reflect off one another and extend the hallways by miles. When I pass them, they throw my image back at me, millions of me’s, filling the hallways that extend for miles. I do not think I feel afraid until I see myself, find the terror planted in my eyes, the irises tiny in a sea of wide white. My skin is pale, a thin layer of sweat coating it. I do not think I feel afraid until I see myself.

But there is no danger here. The hallways are long and extend for miles, and my eyes are huge with horror, but I am not in danger here. There is no danger here.

I am tired most days. I do not keep track of where in the house I go. The effort is not worth it. The house changes constantly, one day huge and white, each surface a smooth limestone. It is cold those days. But other days it is something like a home, with soft couches and carpets on hardwood flooring, with a handsome wooden staircase with a polished bannister. The wood is unmistakably brown, but there is a redness to it, something warm. If they were eyes, you’d swear they could glow in the right light.

I like when it is cozy here. I like when the wood reminds me of something I cannot place. I do not like the limestone. I do not like the way the light reflects off the smooth white slabs, the way the air feels dusty. I do not know how the house knows how I feel, keeping me in the limestone version of itself until I cannot take it a moment longer. When that happens, I sleep in that cold white place and wake to find myself in the warm, comfortable house, with its red-tinged browns and soft fabrics.

I remember when I realized this. I woke to that wonderful place, and stayed for what I imagined to be weeks. The house must have known I felt better. The next morning I found myself back in that terrible place. ‘Despair’ is not a strong enough word for what I felt. Such a process repeated a few times before I made the connection.

I tried to trick the house once. Tried to emphasize my agony, hoping it would see my pain and alleviate it. I must have been too obvious. I stayed in the limestone halls for months. I wept on that unforgiving ground, my mind crumbling. The house was indifferent. I felt it was punishing me for forgetting my place. I have not made that mistake since.

I don’t speak often. There is no one to speak to. I suppose I could speak to the house, but that feels wrong. It feels incorrect. It feels…shameful. I’ve tried before. The worst part is that I felt like someone was listening.

But I am alone in this place, with its limestone and its carpets, its couches and its mirrors.

Some things I used to say when I still spoke:

“Is anyone there?”

“Can you hear me?”

“Hello?”

I said other things, of course. Not a lot that did any good. Not a lot worth mentioning. I used to worry that if I didn’t speak, didn’t have some proof I still existed, I would go mad. I have been proven wrong. Sometimes I pray for it. Sometimes I think it would make this life easier. I’m wrong, of course. But it’s easy to imagine a better alternative when you know it will never come.

What a fascinating thing. I’ve learned a lot about humanity in my time here. Things I know: I am stuck here. And yet, I still find hope. Hope that one day I will Not be Stuck Here. Another thing I know: That will not happen.

And yet, still I hope. How fascinating. Is it easier to learn about people when you’re in a sea of them, or once they’ve finally become an endangered species? Am I an endangered species?

I’ve described trials to you. I’ve described suffering. This is unfair: there have been joys, too. I find comfort in being alone, even if that comfort is sometimes the bad kind. I find beauty in the limestone, satisfaction in the way my shoes tap and click on its surface. I have laid on those cold slabs on hot days and lost hours in my relaxation.

When I still spoke, I would sing. I especially liked how my voice bounced off the cavernous halls. It has been a long time since I sang. I imagine I used to know songs, but the words have left me. I am not distressed by this: their passing was natural, gradual. The melodies remain, even today. I catch myself humming.

I do not love the house, but I do not hate it. Its cruelty is constant, even in its kindness. Its kindness is constant, even in its cruelty. I do not think it knows what it is doing. Would it be unfair to hold that against it? I have learned much about humanity from myself, but I do not know very much about being a house.

I curse the cold, bone-white stone. I curse it for its indifference to my pain as much as I bless it for its constancy in my life. I bless the polished redwood. I bless it for its warmth as much as I curse it for its evanescence.

I’ve since learned how the house decides it is time for my reprieve from the limestone. I cannot fake it. I cannot make my eyes huge, cannot falsify the fear and exhaustion and desperation in them. I cannot intentionally drown my irises in a sea of white to match my pallid skin.

This is my first morning back in the limestone halls. I have rested. I have slept and ate and enriched myself in whatever meager ways I can find in a place where no one else breathes. Color has returned to my skin, my irises have returned to dominate my eyes.

For the time being.

I take the time to appreciate seeing color in my face. I would be a fool not to. The limestone is at its most beautiful when there is something contrasting against it. It has been a long time. I have almost forgotten, but my body has not. My body remembers the unmistakable brown of my eyes. There is a redness to them. Warm.

…

‘Almost.’

It’s a funny word.

I have almost forgotten.