In the warmest blues of blue of a flower– carefully painted on a white ensemble of a chest of drawers, I saw childhood. In the color dabbed on from what must have been a pure and honest color palette, were beautifully designed round little flowers. And as I opened the chest of drawers, I mourned the death of childhood.
It was a simpler time. It really was.
As I opened the chest of drawers I saw the little things that were lying in it. And it was then that I felt this very extraordinary thing happen to me. I was no longer there, standing on my two legs in front of a forgotten chest of drawers. I was there, on the ground with two Barbies in my hand, playing the same game I had played for the fiftieth time.
And as I watched myself play with those tiny little dolls with their fragile limbs and very breakable heads I was no longer concerned with the vicissitudes of life. There I was, on the ground making two inanimate objects enjoy life more than I would in later life. It was a grand illusion all children create for themselves, the very grand illusion we are keen on ruining as adults, every day of our lives. Yet, as a child our mind has the ability to enjoy the same task with the same vigor for every day of our lives. We dress them up, we recreate situations for them and we get excited. Excited over the same story, over and over again.
Habit tingle us as a child. Habits ruin us as adults.
We appreciate more of this life and of the troubles that come with it after living on it for a very short amount of a few hours than we do in our entire life after it. The trouble is not with our lives but the way we end up looking at it.