on childhood...
i believed in magic, and fairies, and imagination. wonderful things would happen on a daily basis because i believed they could happen. seems so long ago now, like a forgotten toy that would resurface in a toy chest every once in a while, only to disappear again just as quickly as it appeared. with the passing of time so too did the feelings of whimzy and wishes disappear to be replaced with ones of regret and damage. it's hard to hold onto your fantasy when reality is trying to supersede every fathom: every nook and crany. 

we're told to just grow up; to just shrug our shoulders at what's to come and to "get on with it." as hard as it may sound we trudge on, heads sometimes held low and pressing against our chests, or otherwise held high and proud so that they can be seen above all others. we continue on, hoping against all other hopes that we can find some sort of familiarity to hold on to. but then that hope disappears, because it cannot exist when you grow up: to grow up, is to lose all hope in what you hold dear. growing up changes what is important; no longer can a scratch be mended by a kiss; nor can we quell bad dreams with soothing words and a hug. we possess the knowledge that this was once the solution to all our problems, only now they are too big to be truly fixed by any means.

and so we pass along our judgement, and attempt to help along those who still believe in magic, and wishes, and have hope. we hold them tight, whisper to them about secret helpers in the night who come to take your scary thoughts away. and quietly we cry, and quietly we hold ourselves tightly, wishing for a hope and hoping for a wish, though it never comes. but we get on with it - it's what we're meant to do.