~ Prologue ~

 The house that was once grandiose in appearance and reputation is now just an aging face. Her glory days are over. Her smooth and delicate skin has been replaced with thick, wrinkled brown leather that’s spent too many days basking in the sun. Birds used to lay their eggs on her rooftop, nestling between each vacant crevice, while their young ones waited patiently for feeding time. Passers by would stop and drink up her beautiful face, astonished by its seductive magnetism. She once provided inspiration for artists all over the city. An architect’s paradise; her body was embellished with subtle features and flawless facades. Poets walked for miles to spend a few minutes alone with her. But now there is little hope for the vacuous ruin. She stands uninhabited and broken, completely hopeless, waiting to be crushed and deposited.

~ Façade ~

She is one-hundred-and-three years old. A centenarian. Her skeleton is strong. Her blood is rich. Thick branches twist and curl like throbbing arteries, fuelling her body with nutritious fluids. If you listen very carefully, you can hear a regular beating drum that sends a reverberating echo from the sole of her feet all the way up her spine to her aging crown. Those brave enough to enter her dark walls find themselves trapped in her decaying shell. She is the House of Lost Memories, and she must remain true to her name. One of her most treasured attributes is the courtyard. Foliage grows in abundance, protecting her entrances from unwanted intruders, both animal and human. The tropical Alocasia leaves shudder as the wind changes course, tearing everything in its path. But despite the stormy weather, its large and robust stems remain rooted in the stony earth. When it rains, it rains hard. Large pellets of water come thundering down on her wrinkled skin, leaving unwanted stains smeared across her outer shell. It’s a wicked, restless jungle that refuses to settle. Once winter has passed a cluster of emerald dragonflies emerge like well-tamed adults on their first adventure. Together, they ascend and descend in perfect unison, like a synchronised orchestra. Between the native trees and untamed thicket, a milk and ginger three-legged cat roams the grounds with an air of authority and disobedience. Every so often he suddenly stops, stands very still, waits for a few seconds, lifts up on his back legs and claws the air above him. If he succeeds in snatching a dragonfly, he crushes it and consumes the victim in a single serving. He has been known to eat hundreds at a time. The House of Lost Memories is a sacred place. It is where life begins and ends, both running parallel to eachother. Indeed, life continues within her walls, but only few have managed to rattle her bones and reach her twisted, bitter core. 

~ Ruin ~

Many years ago, a Russian composer wrote a symphony inspired by my tainted body, flesh and bones. He was my knight and I his muse. He wooed me with each seductive note and I grew to love that wicked smile of his. He glued his compositions to my walls like love notes. They became a part of my fabric and identity. He carved his many compositions into my skin and together we formed a masterpiece. I was beautiful again. All over the city, people awoke to the sound of my voice. It was remarkable; I was considered a national treasure. Then one morning, I woke up from a long, disabling dream to find he had gone. Vanished. Disappeared without a word, a note, or chord. For many weeks I listened to his music in my sleep. It kept me awake at night. His delicate notes tickled my skin and settled like the first layer of snow. I imagined his hands on me. I pictured him kissing me, caressing me. But soon his picture left my memory and I struggled to place him. The nights drew in and winter arrived like a relentless, unshakable cold. I felt an overwhelming sense of loss and abandonment. Loneliness dug its nails into my parched and blistered skin. I stopped eating. I slept all the time. Everything ached. Weeks passed and nothing happened. The days congealed like one big sticky mass and the only remaining hours of daylight fizzled and evaporated. A big, black hole expanded and opened before me. Waiting, like a menacing bottomless pit ready to swallow me up. I was clinically depressed, a by-product of death itself. The winter was harsher than ever. It felt like a decade of cold. Icy leaves danced in circles at my feet. My skin turned red and raw from the exposure to temperatures below freezing. Shiver. My insides rattled like a cabinet full of delicate china. Fragile – do not touch. One at a time my parts weakened and the earth started to break me down into compost. I was a brittle, old thing that needed to be wrapped in endless threads of yarn. I pitied myself. I was completely alone. And I wept. And wept. And wept until I felt nothing. I was nothing but a hollow shell. Then something happened. Something remarkable. A visitor appeared outside my door.

~ Exploration ~

As the house stands barely upright, tilted and threadbare, an old silver-haired man approaches her with caution. He wears a pair of painter’s overalls with large Velcro pockets on the side of each leg. In each pocket, he carries a selection of paintbrushes and acrylics. They haven’t been used in fifteen years. His thick-rimmed glasses sit lop-sided on his button-shaped nose. The visitor is nearing the end of his mortal life. Once a fruitful painter, now he is weary and ready to put his tired bones to bed. All he ever wanted was to see her face again. But she is barely recognisable. He can hear her calling out to him. Come closer. Don’t be afraid. I am here. Hear me. Touch me. My body is made from crushed bones and broken veins. Do you still love me? I was once your shelter. Remember? Do not fear what you see before you. I am as old as you are, child. Each day I wake up a little weaker. My hands can no longer lift the food to nourish my brittle bones. I am not afraid to disappear, for I am already invisible to the world. And the world is changed. It is no longer my home. Come closer. Don’t be afraid to touch me.

~ Finale ~

He wakes up in an empty room. There are no walls, but dozens of floating islands suspended in mid-air. The door stands up by itself without a wall on either side. It’s supported by a skeletal frame and hinge; these are the bones that have kept her alive all these years. Hundreds of steel tubes extend from one end of her shell to the other, like giant ribs protecting her organs and occupying the space of her hollow insides. Many years ago her body was youthful, fluid and agile, but now she is weak and the only thing saving her from collapsing is a temporary structure. What was once a sight to behold is now a construction site. The visitor wraps his fingers around the metallic rail and pulls himself up like a puppet without strings. On the edge of the platform is an easel with a canvas. He reaches for his collection of brushes and peels the dried paint from each solidified tip. This is my gift to you, my treasure, with love. His brush moves around the canvas like a magician’s wand, creating dramatic strokes from left to right. He paints invisible wings for his creature, the emerald dragonfly. As he dips his brush into the imaginary paint, his vision starts to blur. Large, salty tears trickle down his cheeks and onto the canvas. The invisible dragonfly shines creating movement on the surface like little ripples. Each ripple is bigger and greater than the last. Slowly, the left wing peels itself free from the canvas. Its thin veined wing magnifies light from outside the house, illuminating every corner of the hollow shell. He cannot believe his eyes. The visitor lifts the brush from the canvas and holds onto the rail, steadying himself. Then, something extraordinary happens. The dragonfly takes off. Hundreds of dragonflies flood into the house, wriggling through the smallest cracks and holes. The House of Lost Memories is free at last.