My grandparent’s house, where I used to spend my summer holidays, always seemed scary to me. When I recall my childhood, I remember feeling fear and loneliness, mixed with a sense of mysticism. There was a time when I perceived objects as living things. I also imagined that my childhood home was very far from the rest of the world, standing alone in the backwoods.
I always deliberately tried to avoid the hallway on the second floor. The door leading to the living room on that floor was always open and the photos of the dead stared down at me.
Today I feel that my childhood house more closely resembles what I was afraid of when I was small. The places that were familiar to me have been replaced by nature. The scenes of life that intruded on a daily basis from the television are being absorbed by the sound of a rainstorm.