Open Walls

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Do you know them,
these gridlocks, leakages, blocked pipes
in your life?
The ones you have been repairing for so long
that remembering when it started
has already fled memory.
And then—yay—
you finally find it:
the beginning of the thread,
the final blockage,
the one clog you thought
had been holding everything up.
You pull.
And discover another.
And another.
And another.
Until what began as clearing one pipe
turns into the complete renovation
of every water pipe in the house.
Still—
one day
the water flows again.
Actually flows.
You turn the tap
and there it is.
And for a moment
you think:
done.
Then you turn around.
Along every wall
gape the holes
where plaster used to be,
where wallpaper used to be,
where something once made this place
look like a place people could live in.
And you sigh.
Because of course.
Now the whole fucking house
needs renovating.
And while the walls are open,
maybe better check the electrical wiring too.
Those wires have been there
for nearly sixty years.
Some of them barely pulse anymore.
Old nerves,
slow nerves,
wires laid before I had any say
in how this house would be built.
And apparently
there are newer ones now.
Faster ones.
Imagine that.
So there is a lot of sense
in replacing those too.
And then there are the building standards.
Of course there are.
For years
I kept the place within code.
Complied.
Adjusted.
Made things fit.
Learned which walls could carry what,
which doors were allowed to open where,
how high the railings had to be,
where the sockets belonged,
which rooms were meant for sleeping,
which for working,
which parts of the house
were apparently inappropriate
to live in at all.
There is an exhaustion
in compliance
that nobody puts on the renovation plan.
An exhaustion
in keeping a house standing
according to standards
you never chose.
And complacency creeps in too.
Not peace.
Just:
well, it is standing.
The roof mostly holds.
The lights come on.
I know which tap has to be turned slowly.
I know which floorboard gives.
I know where to place the bucket
when it rains.
You can live like that
for a surprisingly long time.
Call it livable.
Call it normal.
Call it home.
Until you begin repairing things
and suddenly
livable looks completely different.
That is the problem
with getting the water flowing again.
You start noticing
what dry feels like.
You start noticing warmth.
Space.
Light.
A door that opens
without having to lift it first.
You start realizing
how much of what you called living
was learning how to work around
what was broken.
And so it goes.
You start with one gridlock.
Six years later
you have pulled out pipes,
opened walls,
followed leaks into places
you never knew existed,
and exchanged
old beliefs,
old values,
old conditioning,
all those things installed
before you knew
they could be questioned,
for shiny new ones.
And what are you left with?
Open walls.
Gaping holes.
More open walls.
Dust everywhere.
The water works.
The wiring works.
And the house
is barely a house.
Just the exposed structure
of one.
And now comes the part
nobody warned me about.
Choice.
So many fucking choices.
Because apparently
once you stop living
according to somebody else’s floor plan,
you have to decide
what your own place looks like.
What color are the walls?
Do I even want wallpaper?
Which room becomes what?
Where does the table go?
Do I still want the table?
And then you look at the furniture.
Of course.
The furniture.
Most of it
is nearly as old as the wiring.
Some of it was never comfortable.
Some of it has been repaired
so many times
that the repair has become
part of its design.
Some pieces belonged here
because somebody said
this is what belongs in a house.
Some I kept
because replacing them felt extravagant.
Some because they still worked.
Sort of.
Some because
I had become so used to walking around them
I stopped asking
why they were there.
And now I have to ask.
Keep it?
Throw it out?
Repair it?
Move it?
Replace it?
What furniture?
What shape?
What material?
What color?
Where?
And somehow
after spending six years
making the place structurally sound,
I am expected to have opinions
about curtains.
I am tired.
So fucking tired.
Tired from finding the blockages.
Tired from opening the walls.
Tired from replacing the nerves.
Tired from learning the regulations.
Tired from complying.
Tired from discovering
how much of my complacency
was simply the exhaustion
of keeping an old building running.
And now
even freedom comes
with a catalogue.
Paint samples.
Flooring.
Furniture.
Lighting.
A thousand small decisions
asking:
what do you like?
what do you want?
how do you want to live?
Questions that might sound lovely
when you have always been allowed
to answer them.
And I am standing here
inside the open walls,
with working pipes,
new wiring,
old furniture,
dust under my feet,
looking at a house
that is finally mine enough
to ask me what I want from it.
And realizing
I still have to make it
a place
I can actually live in.
That is me
right now.