[Just a minor spoiler warning for Gone Home on this one]
It’s like my teenage self never really left, they’re just hidden beneath a few fresh coats of paint. An old memory or visit from my parents and suddenly there I am brooding in the corner, feeling misunderstood and trying to make sense of things. I don’t have any warm feelings about growing up and I’d much prefer to forget what it’s like to be incomplete and shaped primarily by others. I had a fairly innocuous, privileged upbringing. I hate to think what it’s like for someone with more to escape.
Gone Home wants me to remember, but I can’t hate it for that. Somehow it reaches in and makes me care, even though I don’t want to remember. Somehow it becomes relevant to my life, even though I have very little in common with these people.