Misery

It was the miserable rain that soaked my cloths as i reached home after walking for hours..the door looked slightly ajar. I pushed, it gave a little resistance, the lock that held the door slipped out, the door gave out a slow, agonized shriek as it opened into a short, dark passageway.
the house looked dank and deserted,there was a unsettling air to the place.as if i was entering a world i didn't understand.it was a misty winter morning, the drizzle adding to the darkness, walls of the house mingling with gray outside.
I could feel my feet sink in sand and gravel, just a bit uncertain about what lies beneath, tentative and nervous, i forged ahead, clutching my rucksack tightly, railing against the sickening cold.
I entered the first room of my home, the walls, the chips, the broken paint, all seemed familiar, even though i had never seen my house in this decay. It looked exactly the same, fitting in into the storyboard, the house in my memory had aged to resemble exactly as it was, the decay, disrepair, sadness, damp and dignity, yes i knew this place only too well for my ease..
It was not as if this house was always this sad. this house had it's days of sunshine, rejoice and affection.In this strange place, stranger then anywhere else- claim the legends of the land,I had grown up into the uncertain age that i was in, . this house was my limbo, my nourishment, my bane, a place that let me wait, scratch my nails against it's walls, bang my fist, wet it with my tears, brake it and rebuild it, piece by piece, This house was world to me=..once..
As the time goes by, you forget things, incidents, people, places- what remains with you is familiarity, the attachments and foreboding, memories make you smile and tremble with fear- and you do not even remember why..
I knew this place too well, i knew not what pulled me back into it.. one always comes home.. one always returns to some place. thought why is not that obvious, why do we return? why do we fear the unknown, why the endless path fills us with sadness? is rolling the stone up the hill forever any worse than watching it roll down and roll it up again?As always, I guess it will take another legend to answer that question, to speak that we know and dare speak not..
The story that brought me back to the house was all too familiar, you would have heard it many a times, in a different time and place, still, it will be an interesting story to pass our time, while we carry our stones, it's not too bad if we know all the subtleties of sufferings, if you were an artist, it might inspire you into something profound...
with these noble thoughts i started this story of my house, it's happiness and misery..i do not know if i will finish it this night, the end isn't here.. not yet..