Is it so wrong to look back on my childhood with the long and dried out shadow of a man far greater in years? Should I take heart that I’m still “young” in some way and that my best years are supposedly ahead of me? Why can’t I shake the nagging feeling that my childhood was the best time of my life?
There were a lot of things about my childhood that made me who and sadly, what I am today. So many wondrous inspirations and things that needed no explanation, things that made no sense and never conformed to logic or rules; there were things in my childhood that seemed like magic.
I can only look back now on my childhood lost to time and bitter exposure to the world or the real. There are days that I wonder if I will ever remember what magic is because now all I can see are harrowed shells of men and women shuffling around me and broad strokes of gray painted on every wall. I want to shuck this coil with reckless abandon and fly once more like I did when I was a child.
…but so many things lost…