The word thief

He was a ruthless word thief
A thief who stole words that hurt
Words do hurt, don't they?
They hurt worse than wounds
Words uttered in anger and hatred
Words uttered in hopelessness and desperation
Words uttered after consuming alcohol
Words uttered before committing suicide
Words uttered during a domestic argument
Words uttered during a legal judgment
Words uttered to release pain
Words uttered to cause pain..
The ruthless word thief specialized in the theft of the last type
The type that hurts the most
The type that makes man's brain return to its beastly nature
The type that makes man's heart hold unresolved regrets
The type that makes lips bleed
The type that makes languages an unnecessary greed
The type that breaks human bonds
The type that harms health and happiness..
The ruthless word thief specialized in the theft of this type of words
The type that hurts the most
The type that is unintentionally uttered by a wife
Before her husband drives away to die in an accident
The type that is unintentionally uttered by a son
Before his father walks away to die of a weak heart
The type that cannot be taken back
Like the rain drops that cannot be taken back by the sky
Like the shed flowers that cannot be taken back by the tree..
The ruthless word thief would steal such words
And dump them in a garbage yard
To set them later on fire
The words would burn fiercely
Fueled by the flames of regret
And after they had burned out
One could always see their silvery ashes
Lying on the garbage yard like unwanted babies
One could also hear the gentle whispers of the silvery ashes
During cold nights and rainy mornings

Like the breeze's lullaby to a war-torn city

Like the ocean's lullaby to a stranded sailor
The silvery ashes would gently whisper,
"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!"

The houses I have lived in

I wonder if the houses I have previously lived in would remember me.

Would the ceilings remember the times I erupted in celebration? Would the floors remember the tears shed during times of distress? Would the windows remember my yearning for a journey, and would the doors remember my yearning to stay indoors? Would the kitchens remember my never-ending hunger, and would the balconies remember my slowly-diminishing anger? Would the cupboards remember the scent of my clothes, and would the racks remember the stories in my books? Would the ceiling-fans remember my exhaustions, and would the night lamps remember my dreams?
Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't.

But I am sure that a visit to these houses will help me remember a part of myself that has been comfortably forgotten in the pursuit of the present. The visit might even help me remember some dreams I have forgotten, some promises I have broken, and some relationships I have left behind.

Isn't that the scary part of facing our past? Along with our growth, it also shows us the price we have had to pay. The price of progress.

"The magnitude of a progress is gauged by the greatness of the sacrifice that it requires," said Friedrich Nietzsche.
Some of us can gauge our progress by the houses we have left behind. Perhaps, also by the dreams and promises and relationships that are slowly peeling off the long forgotten walls.