Sometimes I forget that I am living in dreams created by other people.
Someone else's vision: a combination of their sweat, commitment, pain, hurt, happiness, life and stories. Someone else wrote this script, I was just making it come to life.
When I first moved to the house I wrote about in my first entry, I didn't realize what I was stepping into.
I would soon learn that the house took 17 years to built, an idea that blossomed into a reality after what would feel like an eternity.
Between loans, work, and many detours, each little detail felt like a big accomplished. Patience was a lesson learned.
And before he knew it, the house was finished. I wonder if I could ever be so committed to something. I am envious of his dedication.
Joyous as he was, to complete his dream, he needed people to live in and rent his place.
The house was his script. All that was missing were the actors. This is where yours truly comes in. And then this is also where yours truly leaves.
Yesterday I moved out of that house and now am living in a new place. I cannot say which one I like better but I feel more at home now. Mostly because I like small beds. I will never understand the fascination with big beds. But this is not about beds.
In the echos of people's absence, I wonder what my former landlord thinks about his dream. I wonder if he ever regrets giving up so much of his life to build that house. I wonder if he regrets creating dreams that are dependent on the presence of other people. I wonder if he feels a sense of loss. That is what I think I would've thunk if I was in his place. Maybe it is a good thing that I am not.
In the end, what do the totality of our efforts amount to if the pieces we need always go missing?
Just some big houses with empty dreams waiting to be filled.
Until next time,
-Ko.
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