The House of Dreams

The house was abandoned—derelict—like the crumbling buildings from empires long ago. It was but a remnant of its former glory.

Once it had stood tall and proud.

The sidewalk passing in front of it was even and well-maintained. The iron-wrought gate had well-oiled hinges. It was always open and inviting. The hedge bordering the property was trimmed regularly and kept in check. It was immaculate. The lawn was lush and verdant. A large oak tree provided shade from the afternoon sun.

As for the house itself, its walls were sound; its foundation solid. A fresh coat of paint was applied to the exterior every five years. The windows were washed. The porch and front walk were swept clean. In short, the house was well taken care of and looked after.

It looked to be a proper house—a home. A place to live, to laugh, and to love. A place to dream and share those dreams with loved ones—hopes and wishes for the future, whatever it would hold. And those dreams were important. Far more so than you might expect. See, those dreams were that which held the house together.

But that was a long time ago. Now, those dreams had been abandoned. Forgotten.

The house bore its effects. It was in shambles and loved by none. The porch and front walk were covered in rotting, decomposing leaves with no one to sweep them away. The windows were dirtied and shattered—some missing panes like an awful toothless grin. The paint was no longer fresh. It was chipped and faded—peeling away in places like sunburnt skin. The walls were leaking rainwater, and the foundations had shifted. The house struggled to stand. It seemed one second away from collapsing in wearied resignation. Perhaps it wanted to.

The large oak tree had withered and died. It dropped its leaves wearily one Fall, and they never grew back. It no longer provided shade from the oppressive, afternoon sun. As a result, the lawn was no longer lush and verdant. The grass was yellowed and brittle. More weeds grew than grass—and even those had to fight to survive. The hedge became wild and overgrown before it died with no one to water it. Nothing but dead branches remained. No longer well-oiled, the iron-wrought gate was rusted and ruined. It was still open, but it hung partially off its hinges. The sidewalk passing in front of the house was crooked and uneven—the cement was cracked, and weeds crept upwards through it.

When it had been cared for, it took a great deal of work to maintain so that the house didn’t fall into ruin, but it had been well worth the effort. Passersby would see it and smile. Some with envy, others with pride, but they all appreciated the house and what it stood for. What it could become—given enough time.

Once, the house had stood tall and proud. No more.

Now, the passersby would shake their heads in disappointment. What it could have been, they’d sigh regretfully. If only it hadn’t been abandoned. If only it hadn’t been forgotten.

The house had once been full of dreams. The house was made up of dreams. The house of dreams. It now stands abandoned—a silent tomb for things that once were. The house of broken and neglected, discarded and forgotten dreams. Your dreams are there. Mine too.

But there’s still time. There’s still time to remember what was once forgotten. There’s still time to find that old, abandoned house that once stood tall and proud. To gaze upon the remnant of its former glory, not despairingly—not disappointedly—but with hope and determination. To restore what once was lost. To whisper to ourselves and to the house, What you could become—given enough time.

There’s still time.

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