A Forgotten House
She turned her face to the left. There was a white house. The path led past the house, and the house had it's own path. Summer had turned to autumn, and she was walking through the labyrinth wood on her own. This house caught her attention. White stone built in a exclusive and humble looking way, careful and inviting. The path leading up to the house had not been in use for a while. Jenna, curious, walked up to the house, wondering about it's story. Whom did it belong to. She placed her forehead on one of the windows, carefully studying the room inside. She imagined it had belonged to a successful writer. A poet, storyteller of fiction books and non fiction. A world known person, with a genuine interest for everything in life. The room would contain lots of images on the walls. Classic art motives and some personal images. Simple furniture, but with interesting details. All in delicate, toned down colors, harmonizing with each other. She stepped away from the window. Inside the walls were white. The wooden floor emptied.
"Tell me about the white house in the wood. When I mention it to people they just shake their head and look at me like I am waisting my time". Jenna hoped she would get a satisfying answer. The bartender smiled. " I know this. No one talks of him anymore". Stan scratched his chin and disappeared into his own world, thinking". "Well", Jenna replied. He looked at her, smiling. "It was built by a family from overseas. A rich family enjoying great respect. They wanted to have a place to withdraw to. Their son, decided to move in some ten years ago. A nice guy. Fitting in everywhere, but at the same time being distant, always admiring some dreams of his own". "What did he do?" "He was a philosopher, essayist and artist. "Did you talk to him", Jenna replied. "Only a couple times. I was younger then. And not so interested in philosophy and that stuff. Jenna paused for a moment, thinking."What was his ideas about"?
She was back again. At the house. Jenna had been wandering around in the wood for hours. She liked that, sometimes. Just being outdoors, doing nothing, on her own. The wood was a quiet place. It was like meditating. And when doing that, she would always get so many ideas and dreams.
Nobody knew his name. People were always in such a hurry. Rushing. He had chosen a odd place to come to. People here did not seem to share the same interests as he did, shaking their head, having little to tell about this man, about his house. Like they had awaited to be given something grand, having little gotten. Or nothing at all. She was back at the house again. Pressing her forehead on the window, looking in. She did not knew what she thought she would come to see. Because she knew there was nothing in there, yet she expected to find something.
People here did not make use of the woods. They would go around with their daily business day out and day in, rushing. Philosophy was quite an interesting subject. If she would try to learn about it, she would also find out more about the philosopher. Where was he now? She was back at the house again. Pressing her forehead on the window, looking in.
It was not just the house that was forgotten. People here had forgotten themselves too.