I hate the old house.

It's covered in vines and the wooden floors are rotting.

The roof is collapsed, and a tree is growing through one of the walls.

Inside, it’s humid and damp.

It is a good place to think, but it corrodes your thoughts

My legs move one after the other, monotonously.

Treading across the hard ground

the thick asphalt.

My legs led me to the house again, I had seen it

approaching.

I ask my legs to stop, but they don’t respond.

I try to turn around or move

I am paralyzed from the waist down

Marching toward the old house.

I to the front door.

Gripping the door frame, desperately trying to stay out

but it drags me in

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