I am growing older.
It is becoming obvious.
I don’t find joy in half the things I used to. Halloween isn’t fun because I wonder if my costume is good enough. Thanksgiving isn’t the same. Christmas isn’t as magical.
I see the flaws, I see the arguing, I see the problems, I see the darkness, I see responsibility.
Driving. Watching younger siblings. Parties. Boys. School. Friendships.
They are all harder than expected.
I don’t want to lose my childish whimsies and dreams. I want to keep wearing fairy costumes and playing pretend. But it gets harder and harder as time plods on.
I want to still find happiness in the little things. The first rush of cold air in the humidity. The first Christmas special. A hug. Riding in the rain. Sitting in the grass and pulling up the roots. Finding a lucky penny (my brother found three for me a couple days ago, and I just nodded and put them in my pocket.)
I want to watch Phineas and Ferb with a happy heart and laugh my head off, and not feel judged.
I want to be able to want to visit the Smithsonian for a whole week and jump off a waterfall without people thinking I am ‘naïve.’
I want to be able to jam in the car to stupid songs without people noticing me and thinking ‘what a childish thing to do.’
Responsibility tells me to stop, but I just can’t.