Tonight, I looked back at what I have accomplished so far (studies, writings, travels) and I’m quite proud.
I was reading old poems and stuff I had wrote last year and I couldn’t believe I had written them. It looked like it was written by someone I even didn’t know. A stranger, a usurper. When I think about it, it seems normal. We grow up. But I don’t want to.
I want to remain the child who has fun with a stick of wood, the child who draws outside the lines and doesn’t care, the child who isn’t depressed, scared, worried, unhappy,.. nostalgic.
Nevertheless, I think the child still exists. He survives, well he tries. Sometimes, when I am alone, he can come out and play, draw without caring, dream. (I look crazy now) I am worried though… I am worried that as I grow up, he disappears, and leaves the “old me” alone with my sorrows, my fears, my memories, my nostalgia.