Falling Apart, But Ever So Gracefully

"Sometimes I think architectural ruins harbor lost souls."
"I think those souls are not of people, but of the houses themselves. Still clinging to whatever remains of their home."

There is something about dilapidated buildings that always fascinates me. Whether standing forgotten in a ghost town or nestled in the heart of a bustling city, my gaze always lingers on them a little longer than usual.

I think of the stories they have lived, the storms they have weathered, and the loneliness they have endured. I peep through their windows and see the mayhem inside: the broken walls and worn-out frames, trapped under nonchalant cobwebs.

And I think of all the memoirs they carry in their heart — stories never told, laughter that once echoed through now-empty halls, and arguments that still hover faintly in the air.

I think of how they stand still, stripped of beauty and battered by time, yet poised. I think of how they hold together what remains of them, unfazed by the glamour blossoming around. A little cracked. A little stoic. Possibly judging us for calling exposed beams a design aesthetic.

Sometimes, I wish they could speak to me. I would ask them, of all they have lived, which story was their favorite. And I wish they would say: it’s the one about standing at the fag end of life, feeling full and content in knowing what it means to have lived.