I miss my childhood.
Fond memories of walking in the woods on crisp winter days, the only sound the crack of twigs snapping underneath my feet.
A deep breath... the smells of cedar, birch, and cool country air comfort and surround me like a blanket.
There was work to do, there always was. Raking leaves, picking up sticks.
Between trips I'd wander off to explore a spot I'd been to dozens of times yet somehow always felt new and exciting.
I miss my childhood.
Awkward first day of school photos with too-new clothes seemingly tailored for someone else, that I hadn't chose.
Who was I trying to impress? Besides everyone, of course. Trying too hard to fit in, like a square peg wanting to fit into that circle slot.
Learning the social structure in short fashion. Being unfashionable = Crawl space of the cool kid clubhouse.
Still...
I miss my childhood.
I wish I was as excited about anything as most kids are about everything. Sticks were swords, couch cushions created castles, and grass stains were a daily occurrence, because...
Outside was beautiful. Outside was clean. Outside was opportunity, potential, and unfulfilled dreams.
I grew up outside of the city, and I'm so grateful that I did; because I experienced the beauty of nature as a kid.
What is it that erodes that lust for learning? The burning questions I'd ask my parents, like, "How fast is the Earth turning?" I wish I could recapture that hunger, that yearning...
I miss my childhood.
