When a House is not a House

I think the house is a metaphor for our psyche. We have the side of ourselves we present to the outside world. It is respectable, it looks reconizable for what it is because we strive to be like everyone else with a few differences on the outside. We have windows to the interior but even then in front of the windows we arrange things with the skill of a master landscaper. However through the door, and in the rooms that you can't see, something much darker may lurk.

Our long hallways can be our flaws. They may condense sometimes and be nothing more than momentary shifts into darkness. Anger can be a small blowup inside our own head, or a murderous rage from which nothing (no one) is safe. We all have minor insecurities and deeper damage that we hide in darkness impenetrable so no one else may see it.

Finally we come to our markers. Some of us blessed with self-knowledge know where we are deficient. So we place markers so we can understand where the darkness makes a habit of getting the best of us. However at times our markers become mangled and our flaws swallow what used to mark them and we succumb to our darkness. Still other times greater flaws lurk in the darkness ones which we do not know about and therefore fail to mark. The ever present growl of worse things than darkness and cold.