Every time we go back a little piece dies.
When I was young I had a vision of what the world was- it was all magic and mystery and possibility.
Every time we go back it's as if one piece of the mystery is revealed.
It is ordinary, and functional. So crystal clear it cuts me. Then it's gone.
Life becomes a little less magical and a little more predictable.
The parts of me which were still molding and wishing, hardens - falls into place.
Do as I am supposed to.
Talk as I am supposed to.
Feel as I am supposed to.
When the world makes you stop believing in the magic of life- what the hell is the point?
We only get one.
