#pangungulila

In my dreams, I still live in the house I lived in from age 6-18.

Typically, near the end of my dreaming cycle, I start realizing that I don’t live in that house anymore, and I try to put the pieces of my current house into the image, until it gets so confusing that I just wake up frightened.

Frightened about how easy it could be to forget. Knowing that the house we have right now isn’t as strongly etched in my mind as the house it used to be.

Same address, different house

Neither version of the house is flawless. But I remember very clearly how I thought that that old house was perfectly designed. I adored every intersection. The way everything fit together like a puzzle. My dad made me a little polly-pocket style replica of it made of cardboard. The floods washed it away. And I’m left scrambling, trying to replicate it in my sleep every now and then.

I could try and imagine a way to make a house as perfect, but I know I never could. It was perfect not because it was flawless, but because I was aged 6-18. I couldn’t see how it could be better. All I knew was it was mine.

I was in love with that house in a way only a child could be.