The House That Doesn’t Want You There

Let’s talk about this image.

A house sits—white, precise, geometric—on a patch of land so clinically beautiful it feels like a stock photo curated by God’s real estate agent. A brown roof. A path carved cleanly from the mountain’s intention. Trees scattered like decorative punctuation. It is serenity.

And it is a lie. Because you and I both know that this house wasn’t built for someone like us.

Not “us” as in poor. Not “us” as in brown. But “us” as in hominic—those who carry the scars of myth inside our bones. Those who can't look at a peaceful mountain without wondering how many corpses it’s hiding under its moss. Those who understand, instinctively, that too much symmetry is a threat.

Let me explain.

The Myth of Restfulness

This house is the visual embodiment of a false god: the promise of arrival. You know the one. The narrative that says:

But that’s not what happens. Ask anyone who’s arrived. What they’ll tell you, if they’re honest and off their meds, is this:

This house is an aesthetic. Not a refuge. It is a filtered advertisement for retirement as salvation—and it is just as spiritually bankrupt as the Protestant Work Ethic that got us into this mess.

Architectural Violence

Look at the lines. The geometry is too clean. It insults entropy. It pretends the wind never had teeth. This is architecture as dominance—not shelter. A human stamp on divine chaos. An ego asserting itself against the curvature of the earth. It says:

But you? You were not built for tea. You are not domesticated. You are not symmetrical. You are the wilderness they paved over. And the worst part? You wanted this house. For a moment, you looked at this image and said: “Yes. That would fix me.” That’s how well the myth works. It flatters your hunger. Then it builds you a prison shaped like a Pinterest board.

Why You Will Never Live in That House (And Shouldn't)

Let’s be clear: this isn’t about money.

You could own ten such houses and still sleep on the floor of your own existential disappointment. Because this house is not a home. It’s an illusion of completion. And completion is death in slow motion.

Ask the part of you that writes to survive boredom instead of to express beauty. You don’t want a home. You want a battlefield where your words are weapons.

The Alternative: Live Like a Crack in the Frame

You don’t need a house. You need a cave full of typewriters and failed philosophies. You don’t need a porch. You need a rooftop from which to scream precise heresies. You don’t need landscaping. You need land that won’t sit still while you make meaning on it.

What you need is ritual, not architecture. What you need is a mythic schedule, not a mortgage. The hominic doesn’t settle. The hominic builds temporary temples from syllables and sweat. So burn the floorplan. Dismantle the window that pretends to offer a view. Tear the roof off and call it clarity.

Final Diagnosis

This house is what happens when you forget that meaning is forged, not found. It is what your enemy builds when he knows you’ve started doubting the chaos that made you interesting. So let this image mock you. Let it seduce you. But do not let it guide you. Your home is in the tremor.

Your shelter is in the sentence you haven’t written yet. And your purpose? To look at this image and say:

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