Times Gone By

The house feels much like people feel when things or people leave their lives; empty, alienated, and sorrowful. The house is almost jealous that the man left to paint other houses and towns because it only cements the fact that this house is not “good enough” to be painted and to keep the interest of a painter because it is nothing special. The last three lines tie the feelings of the house to the feelings of humans in that the house feels sorrow just as people do and it mourns the loss of friendship and relations in general. The house anticipated and will always anticipate that the person in its life for the time will not stay because they never do. The house again blames this fact that no one stays around it to the originality of its design and how because of its originality, it is somewhat awkward or weird. This is true for people too because many are trying to fit into a certain social norm that is accepted by society and if you don’t fir in this box then you are an outsider and are alienated just because they are a little different and do not conform to what everyone around them is doing or saying or

If this story had been told from a first person point of view, the reader my not have gotten this in depth of a description of the setting. Without the reader understanding that the house was boarded up and abandoned, to the point where it seems

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

The leather furniture was cracked, and if the chairs were sat upon dust rose about one's thighs. The house seemed to be submerged in shadows as if it also refused to admit the light of the future. It had once been part of the most stylish street in town. Now it was surrounded with the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps. It had obviously become an eyesore compared to once when it had been so beautiful.

They were flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of light wood, with spindle porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. Yet for all their frailness, how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness some of them managed to contain! The life that went on in them seemed to me made up of evasions and negations; shifts to save cooking, to save washing and cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of gossip. This guarded mode of existence was like living under a tyranny. People's speech, their voices, their very glances, became furtive and repressed. Every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. The people asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over the surface of things in the

Riah hesitantly entered her house hold as the cold fall air trailed in from outside. The house was completely empty with the exception of a small dog that refused to stop barking. Following the same dull routine, in the same dull house. An overpowering smell of rice filled the room, much to her dismay. Riah pulled out folders, notebooks, and a pen; steadily drowning herself in the incomplete work from the day.No matter how many lights were on, or how loud she played the music, her home still seemed to hold an eerie silence.

wind. It was as if it was crying, almost howling for its voice to be

House is commonly referred to as another word for warm home and love. Since the house Emily lives in is the only property her father leaves her with, memories and love of his father must be sealed in the house. However, Emily’s house is not cozy or beautiful, but rather an “eyesore among eyesore” (Para.2), with “a smell of dust and disuse” (Para.4). What darkens the once well

The house occupied by my daughter and I lived fell silent, the sunlight stopped shining in for a few moments. I looked around to remember how lively this house was, back when her mother was still alive.

The sky was getting darker every second, as my long blonde hair was blown from my pale face. I took a deep breath and smiled a little. The cool, crisp air was refreshing from the heated and stuffy house. Making my way from the warm and coziness that lie behind the door, I headed towards the old buildings that surrounded my house. There were three of them. One was an old one room house that looked as if it wanted to fall over. The second, that lie adjacent to our garage, was a rotting shed filled with empty bottles and garbage that was there long before we had moved onto the

Now the ramshackle dwelling is a place people say seeps dread. A spot where the sun isn’t quite as bright, the dust oppressive, and the teeming, yellowed weeds that camouflage its former glorious gardens are ragged and

In 1983 I really did not have any thought on how my mother must have felt when I left home. I was happy, I found myself a job away from home. By reading the chapter and the link that I have attached on this subject, it gave me a different perspective on how my mother must have felt when I left home and why she became very depressed. Unknown to me back then, she was grieving and was unable to cope with her loneliness.

Now she has a new room. This new room, which I have never seen, is not in my house, but I can clearly picture it. The lonely room is accompanied by a single window, a bed, and a dresser. The window does not fill the room with the natural light from outside, but fills the room with overwhelming darkness, a reminder of the outside world. Cream-colored sheets cover the bed, and suffocate the slender mattress. The bed frame is made of frail metal poles that do not seem capable of holding up a sleeping person. The metal poles of the frame are a dull silver. The poles used to be shinier, but were dulled by the chill and darkness of the room. The dresser is small with not much in it. The walls are painted white, but the paint is chipping off, which only reveals the white wall beneath it. The floor boards, a jaded-colored brown, are especially worn-out at the door from the many people that have traveled over them before. But, these floorboards do not creak like the ones at home, they are sturdier, much sturdier. There is no groaning radiator, the only groan in the room is the hopeless one let out by the springs of the thin mattress when pressure is placed on it. At home, the sturdy, wooden frame of Julia’s bed is stronger than the frail, dull metal poles, and the only chipping of paint on the walls is the chips of the neutral gray paint where posters and pictures once hung on her wall,

Inside were the faces of grief and mourning. Flowers surrounded the dark place to bring a shard of hope and brightness. The girl was sleeping there peacefully as the light from the coloured stained glass brilliantly reflected on her ivory skin. The clock ominously ticked away at each second. Quiet chatter filled the air. Cries that seemed very far away were uttered.

Suddenly! The tall iron gate stood in front of me. Behind it, the garden was a picture of total desolation. And nestled in it, was the house. My house. I recognized it. However, I still had doubts about this impulsive identification. If this house were mine, how could it possibly have fallen into this terrible state of neglect? Did my absence last longer than I thought? Or, by some cosmic anomaly, was time more destructive to those particular grounds?