I thought I remembered my first home pretty well. Even though I was three when I was moved out of there, I remembered a lot of things about it: the stairs inside the front door leading up to the little house itself, the dark rooms, the video cassettes, the cuddly toys, the cribs, the cluttered mess.
But a few years ago, my mother took my brother and me back to that place, the place of my conception, my first memories. We drove and only looked at the outside of the house. It was not how I remembered it at all. Big, normal (newly-occupied by happier people, no doubt), sunny, neighbourhood English garden house. When did it have a garden?
Perceptions, they change, as early as in childhood, once they are in an adult perspective. Was my perception changed overtime by myself, or by others? How true and trusting are our minds anyway? So much going on up there, like in a dark, tiny full house which can only be accessed via dimly-lit, wandering stairs. A light on this house shines ever brighter as we grow older, facing up to our own existence, in our own special, unique idea of reality.
No comments:
Post a Comment