If I Were a House

My room always felt alive to me.
Sometimes it was a mirror. Sometimes a whisper of what I should be, or what I hadn’t become yet.
At times, too demanding. At others, just a comfort hug folded in blankets.

My room had me. And I had my room.
It was messy, then shining.
It held music and silence. TV flickers and bicycle rides. Poems and pauses.
Whenever I closed the door, I wasn’t escaping.
I was entering — a world where I could be whatever version of myself I needed.

Because a room, for me, has always meant space.
Space to breathe.
To become.
To undo.
To not be perfect.

And in this space, I heard things.
Not just sounds — but meanings.
Rhymes arriving before I called them.
The air saying things it wasn’t supposed to.
The silence with its own kind of language.
Yes, I heard voices — not always explainable. Not always safe to confess.
Laughter in the wood. Secrets in the floor.
Most days, I heard good things. But sometimes the dark creaked louder.

So I invented.

That was always my way.
In my imagination, what-ifs didn’t exist.
If I thought of it — it was already real.
A world that welcomed possibilities without needing permission.
My creativity was, and still is, my way of hearing what’s not said —
and turning it into something only I could understand.

Maybe that’s why I believe houses are like people.
They carry the love, the noise, the trauma.
They absorb what we say and what we don’t.
They learn us.

A house can hold a secret for decades.
It can smell like fear or cinnamon.
It can cry without a sound — or echo joy until the windows rattle.
Like us, it gets dressed up. With paint, with furniture, with pretty lights.
But the truth always lives inside.

If I were a house, I wouldn’t be too normal.
Maybe a funny rooftop.
Maybe a house with no corners, just curves.
I’d stand out a little from the neighbors. Not for show — just because I could.

My rooms would change shape from time to time.
My windows would be wide and open — to let the clarity of the world come in,
and guide the tangled thoughts inside.

The stairs? Like piano keys.
A soundtrack to my comings and goings.

And yes, I’d have a dark room.
One I didn’t choose.
One that shows up sometimes when I least expect it.
It wouldn’t have a key, and I might forget how to leave.
But I’d learn to use its quiet.
And if I couldn’t get out on my own — someone would come for me.
Because not every room is meant to be faced alone.
And that’s not weakness.
That’s help. And it’s welcome.

So yes. If I were a house,
I’d whisper.
I’d hold you.
And when needed — I’d open all the windows.
So you could hear your own voice, too.