Some days there is this urgent desire for me to fast forward a couple of years, missing a couple of exams to the prime of adulthood instead of the mere visitation of frontiers, and there are some moments I realise, we need to be children again. The cliche boils down to faith in exuberant amounts.
I picture a typical sandy play area, complete with a slide and rusted swing.
A child’s life being held up by two ropes and a plank, and still he swings.
Whereas, we, with our broad shoulders, heavy feet, begrudgingly fall to order to crisis after crisis. We with our sturdiness, sinking. Come to think of it, we were once that kid.
Some times, in our conquest to discover the inner child, we fly too near the sun. Flying over canopy after canopy, basking in that sweet momental epiphany. Wasn’t even gravity that brought us down. It was, as I’d like to believe, our own awareness of our roots, the need to be watered, earthly nourished over the celestial atmosphere, that sent us spiralling down. Into the very mold we seek to swing from.
Tree-child, you fool, this is not neverland and a root is still a root.
dtwjhalcyonvida 