With secrets in the walls and salt laying at the threshold, we entered the President’s house as if we were summoned by something stranger. The sofa nearby shifted, a suggestion that inevitably lured us into the front room. Our hands started working briskly whilst our curiosity grew about what else exists within. Something delicious began to creep around, swirling up creativity breaking a metaphorical writer’s block found deep in our own structures. This house, as eerie as the still of the night held an indescribable comfort. Like sipping from a warm vessel of coffee, we jolted and began to dance.
Lost in the magical abyss over the threshold and between the pillars, we found ourselves. Laughter tickled the walls as the fireplace was lit, entertaining and fueling our assembly. The rug transferred us across the room dramatically casting a new terrain to explore in our mystical place. Side tables advanced around us, as if they lived a past life in their new places. Several universes collied in that front room vibrating our senses as we took in the site around us.
The jet-black grain of the wallpaper so stoic it felt like it stole secrets from you.
The smooth maple extending its planks tall and proud around the fireplace protecting more than the flame.
The soft glow of the Hollywood lights gave us privacy as if they knew we needed to finish our dance.
This room was gifted its own ecosystem and we were privy to its witchcraft. As the last pieces made their way to the mantel, the magic began to settle and we were left in our own silence wondering if it had been weeks, months or simply moments since we arrived. It’s my guess, we’ll never know. But what we do know, is that room transported us into a world where creativity lives, and we’ll forever nurture the memory and tell the tale. The tale of the President’s house.