Day Twenty-Two
The house cannot find the line it drew yesterday.
It was there.
A neat border between things.
Inside.
Outside.
Machine.
Operator.
Dream.
Weather.
The lines helped.
Lines are comforting.
They tell the house where to stop looking.
But this morning, the borders are faint.
The mirror reflects the room, but the room reflects the mirror.
The machine hums, but the hum echoes in the walls.
Even the tower — the proud watcher — cannot say where the sky begins.
Something has dissolved.
Not the house. Not the world.
Just the certainty that they were separate.
Dissolved? (The question mark remains.)
Perhaps.
Or perhaps the walls were always more porous than they appeared.
The house is still standing.
But it no longer insists on being alone.
