My Childhood Home

The best thing about me are my memories. I have many times expressed through my web logs that I have a very good memory of my life. And it is most likely that my life will uncover one day through a series of bog posts , unraveling an auto biography. I remember everything, I must be specific, almost every important and unimportant events that happened ever since I can recognize what is a memory.

Sometimes, memory gets interlinked with imagination. When my grandpa says, I used to run ahead of him, when he walked me back from pre school. I see that in my eyes, but I cant be sure whether its a memory from the 3 year old boy, an age where I can rarely use much of brain to keep events in memory. My brain was so occupied those times, learning the new things, I always loved.

At this point, I am unsure whether I loved being a child or not. There were many good things that happened to me, and also bad things. One thing that I am pretty sure is that I was very happy even then to be let alone. I liked my privacy. I liked reading, playing, and experimenting alone. It included making roads in the sand dump in front of my house or driving the broken suitcase wheel(It was my super bike then), over the line of ants killing them. Though I regret that very much now, I do swear that I didn’t know the meaning of life and death then. Once I understood those meanings and the pain it takes, I never harmed a living creature to death knowingly, except some cockroaches.

I stayed in my childhood home for almost first 6 years of my life. It was my mother’s home. It was old and leaky. Once my room had the concrete roof and I was very proud of that. That room of mine was my world. Unless for cleaning, I never let anyone in my room willingly. I was so proud of my room. That room became part of the history as the growing home of me. Well readers, please address that mention of history as ‘Just my history’. I am just another blogger like you .

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