Of people and houses
They say, show me your friends, and I’ll show you who you are. But I have a feeling the same goes for houses. Houses are like people. You walk into one, and suddenly, you know something about the person who lives there—sometimes more than they’d be willing to tell you.
Some houses are practical, straight to the point, as if they’d be owned by someone who balances spreadsheets. They don’t waste time with decoration or sentimentality. They’re efficient, compact, and functional—kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, Ikea. No clutter, no nonsense, no bathtub to soak in because who has time for that? The walls are bare, the furniture chosen for its purpose, not for charm. The power sockets are where they should be, the appliances are modern but not indulgent, no gas stove with steaming pots cooking elaborate meals in sight. These houses don’t dream; they just work.
Then there are the mansions—flashy, loud, begging to be seen. Built on hills or by lakes, they glow at night like expensive billboards, whispering (or rather, shouting), Look at me. Look at my wealth. Look at my power. Their walls are lined with art that no one really looks at, bought from starving artists selling their souls, the sofas pristine because no one ever lies on them to tell the story of the day—no one ever flops down in exhaustion, no one eats pizza in front of the TV. They sit in posh neighborhoods, guarded by gates and cameras and German sports cars, their owners locking up their riches as if afraid they might disappear.
And then there are the modernist homes—minimalist masterpieces, crisp, sharp, and painfully intentional. These houses follow a strict philosophy, every object serving a purpose, every chair positioned just so. Spontaneity is not welcome here. The floors gleam, not a speck of dust or a stray pet hair in sight. A well-calculated surprise might await—a striking architectural feature, a bold piece of design—but nothing truly unexpected, nothing left to chance – no chaos allowed. These houses are beautiful, but they can feel like you’re living inside a concept rather than a home.
Some houses are neglected, abandoned even before their inhabitants leave. The kind of places where time slows down, where the walls hold stories that no one listens to anymore. The furniture is cheap, collected in a hurry, a Billy shelf here, a second-hand table there. The curtains have faded, the bedsheets smell like yesterday’s air. These houses are stopovers, places where people rest but never settle. No music, no candlelight, no warmth—just a space that holds a body for the night before it moves on.
But then, there are the homes that were never really planned. A little bit old, a little bit new, sometimes disorienting like a labyrinth. They’ve been patched together over time, filled with objects and memories gathered from all over—some inherited, some discovered, some that simply appeared one day and stayed. There’s no strict concept, no theme, but somehow, it all belongs. The furniture doesn’t match, but it tells stories. The floors creak in certain spots, the walls have tiny cracks, the bookshelves overflow. These homes breathe, they have moods. Their living rooms are bright and full of laughter, their windowsills covered in plants and half-melted candles. Their kitchens smell like fresh bread and strong coffee, their hallways lined with photos of people who matter.
These houses are warm, but they can be drafty in winter. They are loved, but they need care—occasional repairs, special parts that are hard to find because nothing here was ever mass-produced. And yes, their basements hold secrets, shadows, maybe even monsters. But their attics are filled with forgotten treasures, and if you listen closely, you’ll hear music drifting through the rooms, carried by a breeze that smells like fresh-cut flowers from the garden.
A house like that would be mine.
