There’s something about returning to the home of your childhood. It’s so comforting to find everything exactly the same as when you left it, and in the same location; as if nothing’s changed. Like time stood still. There’s a welcome feeling of predictability in a world full of chaos.
My childhood home for me is symbolic of a time when things were simpler, more innocent and more certain. When the entire world was at my feet and anything seemed possible. When expectations were small, when responsibilities were non-existent. When I was in control of what I did and the ramifications of my actions didn’t extend very far.
Things were more hopeful then. I wasn’t so jaded and broken. I wasn’t so damaged and traumatized.
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