There's an abandoned house on the hill outside the village. Its surroundings are just as deserted as the inside. The old stone fence that once defended the area lays on the ground kissing the remains of what it seems to have been a glorious garden in its times. The soft wind pushes the swing in swirls playing with the air around trees that survived the desolation by reaching through their roots to the deepest of the earth in search of water to feed the green of its leaves in their obstinacy to shadow on the house, like loyal guardians. Laughters and the joy of tens of parties haunt the old porch that leads to a loose and about to fell off front door whose hinges sound sinister each time i open it. It's only a dark cover to keep the visitors away from the inside. The buckled hardwood flooring creak from the first step i take in willing to raise its boards only for the fun of it and to the desperation of my curious mind. At the entrance a vinyl record is waiting for my fingers to slowly fit the gramophone`s needle into its groove. The vibrations pass from diaphragm to the horn and the sound of Peggy Lee`s music follows my steps into the house. "Someday we'll build a home on a hilltop high / You and I / Shiny and new a cottage that two can fill / And we'll be pleased to be called / 'The folks who live on the hill'... /..."
The smell of long time closed space created a cloud of dust cut through by rays of a sun shyly invited in the living room by the blurry lines of discoloured curtains. This peacefulness is cure to my spirit. Various pieces of wood inhabit the old ashy fire place adorned by uneven river rocks and traces of smoke. Dense and thick, the aroma of fur that was once lived in merge, almost levitating, into the darkness of the house only perturbed by an earthy, resinous, antique-like and sweet silence that is slowly reaching out from the ground floating the air around. The almost compact fragrance of moldy wall paper diffused over the dinner room is taken in by a massive table and its 18 chairs dressed in green velvet washed in shiny particles of dust reflected by the see through crystal pieces of an impressive chandelier. A small door connects the floor to the kitchen whose big windows create a pittoresque view for the orchard behind the house. I close my eyes and breathe in the warm aroma of spices and caramelized sugar that were abundantly used in luscious dishes and desserts with the feeling of heart and home. "... / Our veranda will command a view of meadows green... /..." keeps me company on the way to the master bedroom that hosts a forged iron bed with a nightstand on each side and a frontal vanity whose mirror reflect the weight of what's occurring in my mind. My favorite place in the house. The smell of resins, balsams and dried flowers is a welcomed guest. I lay on the floor measuring the ceiling and begin to fumigate my inessential thoughts until i feel safe and at peace with my inner self. 
I take another look at the room before leaving it and lead myself to the way out.
There's a sign above the door i open with the same relief as every time i leave all of my burdens inside:
Ana`s Q. P.
V. A. A. N.

There's an abandoned house on the hill outside the village... of my mind.

I smile to myself and open the eyes into the mess of papers and the screen decorating my  desk among other desks and stressed out people. I needed to pause and take a bite of my special space, where other Visitors Are Allowed, Not.
A`s quiet place.


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