This house is freezing and dirty, I can't stand the rooms, the damp mould, the bare splinter infested floorboards that prick at your feet and try to embed wooden shards into your toes through your socks. The windows are thin dreary panes of dull glass, the same paint has lurked on the walls for over a decade, and there's nothing here. Nothing worth seeing or experiencing. It's as cold in here as it is outside, with breath clouding in the air on the stairs before it too fades away escaping as quickly as steam from a kettle. Everything's not clean enough, not clean enough for my use. I wash everything I touch even if its proclaimed to be clean anyway, because I never really believe it. The place is stale, stale and gone off, and lingering is the memory of a bad smell that can't quite be cleaned away.
The Wall I've mentioned before, well even that, although sturdy and everlasting out there, that too has crumbled in my affections. I have no use for it. A garden so lovely once, that I myself have worked on is ruined by other influences and frankly I want my own. I want my own little patch of grass and my own kitchen to keep clean, when I know it will stay that way, it's not long now.
Until a year ago there was nowhere else to go, no escape for a long period of time, but now, down there, Coniston House has become a sanctuary, just for the quiet. The quiet and the undisturbed peace and the comfort. It's a warm room, with a comfortable bed with a carpeted soft floor and modern facilities that work consistently. There is little essence of myself there, unlike the damp four walls of my bedroom that carry my collected life, in the corners, on the walls, in books and on shelves, (not a lot really for a quarter of a life past) And Connie is certainly not by a long shot what you'd call 'Home' and but it's the closest thing to freedom I've had so far in my life, and I cherish every second there.