In the fall, I bought an old soap dish. Lo-fi photography brought back memories from my student years. I walked along the cold streets and took photographs. And looked at the dim screen and remembered pictures from life.
Yesterday I stood under the shower and remembered that in my student years, while bathing, I sang a song: “cold, cold”
My 2000s are about the cold.
I’m 12, I was sent to my first children’s camp. First time alone: joy and freedom? No, something is going wrong. The camp is called children’s creative cottages. Almost everyone sings and dances, they already have dozens of awards and are shown on TV. And in our camp they have concerts and performances every other day.
Almost all. A small part of children turn out to be uncreative. I can’t sing, I can’t dance. I can’t do anything, it seems. I look from my chair at the stage, wondering what’s wrong with me.
Looking back, I see those early 2000s like a warm home.
A place with my mom and dad, where there is a certainty that tomorrow this home will still exist and wait for me.
A home where I’m cold, restless, unable to find my place — but still a home.