A throwing beside

A man decided he didn't like his home any longer—his actual, physical house. Since he wasn’t allowed to sell it, he chose instead to fix it up. Some of the walls were already crumbling to the ground, plaster flaking down in chalky heaps. They had lost all integrity, no longer doing what walls were meant to do. Other walls hemmed him in, leaving no room to welcome anyone inside.

Those were the first to come down.

He found windows that warped the world, bending trees and sky into shapes that weren’t true. They had lied to him for too long, so he smashed them out, glass raining in shards at his feet.

As you might expect, the house grew wobbly. So before tearing down any more, he tried to discover which walls carried weight. To his surprise, some that looked solid bore nothing at all, and they fell easily beneath his hammer.

Soon, only two walls remained, standing like weary sentinels at the center. The air whipped through the open space—no more doors, no more windows, no boundaries between him and the horizon. The vision was wide, but the emptiness stung his skin. 

He knew this was no way to live.

He asked himself what he truly wanted now that he understood houses better. Should he rebuild with more glass so he could see the world and the world could see him? Should he leave the floor wide, with space for others to enter? Should he try new materials or scavenge something from the rubble scattered all around?

The questions crowded him as the two walls groaned under shifting winds. 

Then a storm broke. 

Rain drove through the hollow frame, each gust threatening to topple what little remained. He pressed his back against the soaked wood, shouting for help, but only the thunder answered.

The storm lingered not just days but months. Months bled into years. His good intentions to build again were beaten back by the elements. The foundation itself began to erode, and many mornings he doubted he would have anything left at all. But sometimes, when the sun would hit just right, all did not seem lost.

When the house had been whole, he’d trusted in its strength. Neighbors with houses like his would lend their hands when he faltered. Yes, dark spirits had haunted the corners at night, but fear never lasted—corners could be lit, and the house had always held. Back then, all was well. Only one other man could build something better.

Now there were no corners, no shadows where spirits could hide. There was only exposure. If he were to have a home again, he would have to trust in his own hands. No other house resembled his, and no other man would draw its plans.

Still, he whispered to the walls, "It will be a great home again when the storm finally breaks." He had already decided there was nothing left worth salvaging from what had been torn down—new supplies would need to be brought in.

Every rain-pounded day, he wondered the same thing: when the sun finally show its face will there be enough left of once was to build again?

Or nothing at all.