Time seems to stop at Redhill Close. Stepping past the gates, into the once familiar house, feeling the unfamiliarity seeping through, like paint seeping through the papery walls. Flakes of paint peeling off, the clean patch of where a picture once hung, the black hole of someone just lost. The bits of memory clung to every possible surface, refusing to detatch, yet, conversations go on as if the memory isn't a memory, but a story, to be regaled again and again. Familiarity becomes strange, intruding into personal space, like a squatter refusing to leave. The surroundings look the same, but in the air, the feeling of something or someone lost hangs thick. So thick that some may choke on it. People come and go, but the house can no longer be a home. An empty shell, where the remnants of someone so dear pains each and everyone but if not felt more pain would exist. Relations are strained, people drift further, further. The pivot, the centre of it all, gone. Everyone floating in a limbo state, refusing to move on, or if moving, find themselves stuck in quicksand, pulling them down, hindering their progress. Is there anymore Love to give? Or has all the Love been given to the one so dearly missed? Where can one turn to in times as these?
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