The Dilapidated House

I am certain that nearly all of us so often reminisce about our past, especially about those moments that have made a strong impression on our present life. In other words, it is real nostalgia for us. We look back on those events that have brought us to where we are now and try to see how this time the present may affect us in the years to come. I guess one has to take care of the current situation so as to guarantee that of the future.

Five years ago, as the national exam was approaching, I used to go to a solitary place in my village where calmness prevailed. I exerted myself there four hours. The thing that characterized the place was that it overlooked the dilapidated house of Mohamed Khair-Eddine, a Moroccan poet and novelist and that it was surrounded by cisterns; one of the latter was where I used to sit. At that hectic time, I had to revise so many lessons, including those of English. But, I chose to revise my English instead there, for I found more solace in the subject, especially that I had intended to write in it and that I was beholding the poet's house at that moment.

I began to read voraciously some simple stories, and do several grammar exercises. In the meantime, I cast curious glances at the dilapidated house. Its shabby appearance whetted my appetite for more reading. In those days, I heard that the poet was noted for knowing the names of every type of flower in French. In emulation, I too set to open my dictionary and examined different types of flowers in English, like daffodils and forget-me-nots that resembled those surrounding the cistern where I was sitting.

I knew that memorizing them was out of place then as a high school student. Still, it was a queer feeling, for I felt an insatiable desire to use them in my poetry too. For me, the dilapidated house filled me with more inspiration with time. And there are also times when I think of paying the solitary place a visit once again. Just beholding the broken windows made me wonder about the rooms where the poet used to sit whilst contemplating every aspect of nature.

I then knew that the location of the poet's house influenced his poetry. In like manner, the solitary place has also contributed to my own. Serenity and calm frequently took over me until dusk. One day, as the sun had nearly set, I immediately went down towards the dilapidated house, clutched the handle of the door for a few minutes, then headed home, leaving a dusty trace. Frankly, it is high time I dusted the handle for the second time.