Where did his childhood go; embalmed within the walls of this house.
He only knew peace by himself, with friends imagined and lost. It was within that house, once a home and cocoon to that anxious child, he could be childlike. His imagination roared. The elders and their watchful eyes – never allowed him to stray too far. The walls of home were enough.
With its protective shroud and comforts, home was enough.
Countless toy trains ran circles around this world, where the child journeyed far and wide in this wondrous bubble. Home, inviting and freeing, the child had precious little else to want for. Hiding and seeking in the cavernous depths of this old home, a party on his birthday. No one found him, because no one looked. Then came the day when the home was shed like old skin, with a new far-off life to fill. But the child remained, hidden and unfound, somewhere within its empty walls. When he emerged from his hiding spot, of his own volition, he realised that the home had suddenly become just a house. And he, now a man; not of the world but just the house.
