The creature, born from the mud, was shaping the sound of the space with its movements. Later, I realised that this sound I heard was its voice. The house was constructed in a circle and climbing plants covered the black frame of the garden house. The smell of their tree bark filled the space. I would spend hours in the garden while listening to the sounds streaming from the house; my sister playing the violin, vinyl records resonating from the living room, my brother running around singing whole soundtracks from movies.
The lapis lazuli painted windowsill would take me into the wilderness where I collected stones to make small sculptures. There I practiced melting into my environment, believing with certainty that if I practiced hard enough I would one day be able to become invisible.
Now as I am older, the house still appears in my dreams. It feels almost like a checkpoint that reflects the state of my creative energy. During times of burnout, I have dreamt of it in ruins. And I have dreamt of it as a place where I still live during times when my creative energy flows and transforms effortlessly into new ideas.
A safe place, where I get to wander and make new discoveries.