The small heads blonde hair is reflected brightly in the golden beams of the sun.

Blue eyes filled with awe that only youth can produce look out the window of a tan station wagon.

They examine every sight and ponder over anything that can be seen.

Every tree and stone is the beginning of a mystical and wondrous story.

A time when every day was significant.

No moment was meaningless.

Every second fantastical.

A squirrel climbing a trees branch or a bird flying along telephone wires, were understood to be taking part in a grand story.

A story that this blonde haired boy was apart of.

This story had pirates and villains,

Dinosaurs and aliens,

And no lack of Cowboys and Indians.

This story was the perfect dichotomy of complexity and simplicity.

The simplest objects carried significance of kings

But every character came down to good or bad

The world had no murky edges or gray middles

There was right and wrong

And nothing in between.

Living in days when nearly every choice that presents itself forces a session of critical thinking it’s not difficult to look back at those days of easy certainty and long to see a dinosaur or cowboy outside the window.

When days bleed together it feels as if the magic that once danced behind every tree and flickered in every eye has long since been lost.

Sitting in a coffee shop,

hair is no longer bright blonde and every day things are just that.

The mind worries about all the responsibilities it holds.

The crisp sound of laughter and the unmistakable clamor of toys cuts through the mist of everything that consumes the adult mind.

Turning, reveals a young boy

his hands clutching a pirate ship and what is almost certainly a trusty Indians stead.

As my eyes adjust to the world, as seen by this youthful mind, the magic that once surrounded me makes an appearance.

It’s like an old friend that’s been away for too long.

For a moment it seems foreign, but that moment is fleeting.

In no more than an instant

something becomes clear

My blue eyes take in a truth so persistent

The world that existed outside that tan station wagon had never left,

or even shifted.

In the haste of the world I had been swept up.

As a run away river carries objects out to the ocean

My mind had been taken by worry and fear.

As youthfulness fades

The imagination is stolen.

But in the eyes of that young boy

I could see that it lived,

My old friend

that had shown me heroes and battles

Who taught me to see

that every moment was magic

Hadn’t died after all.

I had just stopped believing.


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