Attics

An attic is an attic. Sometimes accessible from a rope or a ladder. It is the highest floor of a house. It's where storage items are held, perhaps, even a room. It's contaminated with dust and spiders and bed bugs that creep upon your skin.

In the attic, there is only one window. Circled and crossed, it gleams out the light of the sky. The light reflects its emotions. Through blue or yellow or purple or red, the room will glow along the faces of time. Morning, noon, evening; the colors clash and burn together.

The hard wooden floors creak and moan under pads of meat and flesh. They screech in agony through the thuds and poundings. Children find them creepy. It's not their fault that the imagination runs wild when the highest is reached.

More importantly, attics mean no harm. They just want to be acknowledge. Many times, however, they don't and they're sad. They choose to play with the items that are as lonely as them. Attics are naive and they don't know which toy is more benevolent than another. Sometimes they unleash the demons of past, sometimes they renew a love long lost. One thing is certain, they bring back the melancholy that once was and will be.