The house of the dead

The house of the dead, dead things, living inside. Always there, never moving, never speeding, never slowing down. Everything dead. No people, no living things, all dead. No dreams, no past, no future. Everything dead, waiting for the end of all things. Waiting for the end of days, when all shall burn away into nothingness. When one returns to the house of the dead one realizes ones life without meaning, without purpose, without anyone or anything in it. A life of existence, waxing away until the very end.

One when looking and living in the house of the dead either dies inside or hopes for better things, better life, a life of not existing but living. A life of life. To live, and to grow. Anti-existence, living with someone who can share with you, who can suffer with you. Who can live for you and you live for them. Anyone can die for someone, few can live for someone.

The house of the dead is there. It is and will forever in ones life be there, as long as this world exists. But it is not there to consume ones life. It is there to convict ones life, to inspire ones life, for one to look upon and see what they have in front of them and within them. The house of the dead exists forever in our lives to show us that we are alive. The house of the dead convict us and show us what we have, all of our riches. The dead give us the meaning to live.