The letter is in the can, and I'm leaving home.

I imagine myself turning back to gaze upon this place that I had grown accustomed to for the last 3 years.

I'm glad to see my friends waving farewell.

--

Each time I reminisce I feel guilt bubbling in some random corner in my gut.

I can't remember where and when I had institutionalized it as a bad thing. All the sane, rational people tell you that there's no point in lingering in the past.

Is it different for me? Is it justified if I do not linger in it but instead experience it as if it is an artificial psychological construct?

It's like tumbling down a wormhole. It's all cold and in the pitch blackness there's no sense of orientation. You free fall and roll, doing somersaults. Then you sense yourself slowing down.

You land softly, gently - onto a couch in a dimly lit room. The couch is made up of a rough fabric dyed a somber shade of Prussian blue. The air is cool and dry. In the faint light you can make out that the walls are bare.

Nerves acting up - when there's not enough light it's easy to imagine all sorts of horrors waiting to spring on you. Ghosts from the past. Skeletons in closets.

A mechanical click from somewhere behind. An electrical whine signals an appliance coming to life. A whirling sound, and a hiss of air.

The images start to roll, projected on the bare wall right in front of you.

The past, in technicolor.


Your first baby steps.

You crying during in preschool, because the kid next to you is crying.

You having your first snog and subsequently finding it disgusting.

You getting hit by a pickup.

You lying in the jungle and listening to leaves whispering in the wind.

You, you, you.

--

It look a lot of time to build this fortified palace.

Then all a sudden, you find someone here.

Behind the door, within its walls.

What do you do?

I know that despite being freaked out you're excited as hell.