Childhood
“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them”
You know, it is a funny thing to grow up.
I mean, who does that - anyway?
And yet, we all do ……… don’t we?
The further we grow away - the more obscure it seems to be, unknowable even. Draped in gauzy and muted tones, sounds always missing or beats behind the music - time softened and peered at as though studying a life lived not your own. Or, perhaps erased, unremembered, unremarkable …or… too peculiar and arresting, becoming heartsore memories. Filled with maybes and perhaps, ordinaries, and curious wonderings - yet all a little inaccurate and a little bit false. Gone are the brilliant slivers of time - wonderments that defined each day - everything so new, so shiny, so magical - so undefined. Imagine that - waking in a world that is obscure, blurry at the edges - unhampered by all the shoulds, and thou shalts and don’ts. Full of loose and unbound - untrammeled - thoughts. Thoughts you have never thought before - imagine that.
Can you?
Where mud puddles are meant for oozing between bare toes and filling the empty space between ankle and boot. The only important thing is to calculate the height needed to explode mud into sprays of droplets. What a story writ - bound by laughter and set free for the telling by a wanton disregard for should not. Joy just for the hell of it. Mud just for the joy of it. The epitome of childhood - mud puddles are.
A wild thing - mud puddles - insidious and beckoning us to become unbound.
Dare you? Become unbound?
And yet. We look sidelong at the lawless puddle now - only thinking of the dirty scrawl it would leave upon our bodies.
Such a shame.
How about that urge when faced with a field dotted by cheery yellow and blanketed by lushness - an audacious soul just begging for impertinent feet to scamper without a thought. Pausing only because of the squelching mud squishing tiny feet - demanding to be let out of a boot. What a thing - to step onto a field and to chase the world - feet and hands twinkling a story at the sky. Cryptic and unreadable to those who choose to halt at the edge, to those who simply see a field, to those who see weeds, to those who disdain puddles, to those who forgot how to chase a world.
Growing up, what a funny thing- who does that?
