Passing thoughts about moving (even though I've lived in my house for 2 years)

It's so strange moving into a house that I used to visit sparsely as a child. Nostalgia eventually fades away into the background when I end up driving those same roads daily now, its my life and my home. These are no longer walls filled with stories and people I don't remember or never met. Now they're my walls, the secrets that lay inside are only my own. The sense of mystery and childlike wonder has faded entirely, and I often find myself forgetting the times I had been here as a child.
The woods are no longer mystical and the house doesn't feel like an passing journey anymore, a place to rest and move on, but not truly understand or know. But, sometimes I'll get a flash of what it all used to look like and feel like when I was young. What was different, what remains the same. The child that remembers those things, that found something about this place magical, still views it that way even if its just for a second.
There will always be little snippets of time inside me, that only I will see or feel.
I think its quite nice that every person holds little fragments that only they will understand or find important. It's very human.