Like my car, and my unease when the interior is dirty or filled with crap,
regardless of the shininess of its outer surface . And my house.
Yes, I like the outside to look good, not overgrown with vines or weeds, paint falling off.
But it is indoors where I live, where my life happens. That’s the part I want to take care of,
make pretty or practical or just easy to navigate.
That’s what I want to write about – the interior.
The core of it, the intimate places where people live and breathe, fight and love.
I live on the inside, always rattling around in my own head. Interiors are the story.
Look inside the house, look in the rooms, at the pictures, in the refrigerator, the bar. No bar?
Well, that’s a big tell right there. Come to my house and you’ll find not just a bar, but a whole pub room.
But then look in my refrigerator and you will find mainly healthy foods. No bags of chocolate
covered peanuts, no oversized Reese’s peanut butter cups.
You won’t find those in my kitchen cabinets – because I hide them, in the filing cabinet.
Next to my desk. But nobody knows about that.
Scrape away what is on top, break the shell and find the real treasure. Who was the first person
to break open a coconut and discover both meat and milk? What compelled that individual to take
the time and make the effort to seek what was inside such a hard, hairy, ugly thing?
People continually surprise me and leave me to wonder at their motivation. What makes some
casually mean, others unfailingly kind, and that one, in particular, so hell-bent on
throwing people away and living in misery?