Roofs

(Hey guys! This is a little short story I wrote a while back. Just thought you guys might enjoy it!)

The clouds always seem to be forming new patterns. I’ve seen aeroplanes, trains, ducks and pigs. But other times I just see an unidentifiable mass of cloud. I like to watch the clouds from high up on the roof. The roof was always my go to spot if I just wanted to hide. It was since I was five until this day. I remember everything that happened on this roof. The stories I came up with. The people I brought up with me. The tears spilling onto the roof.

 

I remember the first time I came up here. It was with my mum. My dad was away on business and my mum and I wanted a change of scenery. I was five years old and I remember feeling like I could fly. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was beginning to set. The heat of the sun rolled across my face as I watched the sun melt into the dark void of night. Eventually my mum told me to come inside for dinner. All through dinner, all I could think about was the roof. How it felt like I could see everything. I spent so much time there. I would watch the sun rise, painting the sky bright with colour, and the sun set. And as I got older, I was allowed to watch the stars appear in the sky, like broken christmas lights lighting up the inky oblivion. I would do my homework up there. Every time I felt a writer’s block coming on, I would go to the roof with my laptop and just write up there, leaving a trail of cheesy metaphors and horrible analogies. The roof was my safe place and I never wanted to leave it.

 

But I eventually did. We moved house. My parents said they needed a bit of change so we moved halfway across the country. The new house didn’t have a good roof. We were stuck in a suburban area, where you just see the same house over and over again. I couldn’t find a place that even came close to the roof of our old house. I felt sad and lonely. I spent my first year there moping. I was depressed and distracted. I was fifteen. I had begun writing. I wrote whatever took my fancy. Horror, romance, fantasy, you name it. I already knew what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wanted to write. I always got a thrill that began in the pit of my stomach when I wrote. Each word is like a little piece of me. A chip of my existence. But now, I couldn’t write anymore. It was like every piece of my existence stayed on that roof.

 

I tried writing without my roof. Writing at school. Writing on the couch. Writing in my closet. Nothing felt right. It’s like I was a endless pit of meaningless words and undeveloped characters. A pit of bad similes and metaphors, meant to hold deep life meanings, but were really just jibberish made to make me look good. I just kept worrying that I could never write again because I didn’t have a roof. My grades slipped to the point where my parents sat me down and said that I had to focus. I couldn’t just keep walking aimlessly through my teen years. I didn’t see why I couldn’t. It wasn’t like I had a plan for when I leave school…

 

I finally accepted what my parents had said to me. I began to fully re-enter life again. I never got my roof back. But I found that actually living life gives me more existence, more inspiration, more comfort, than any number of roofs could ever offer me.

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