When I was young I lived for a large world,
a world that seemed infinite and never ending.
It was a world that was good enough,
wherever I was was what I made of it.

The playground was my castle.
The floor transformed to lava.
My socks on the hardwood floor were my skates.
When I received crayons and paper,
I was suddenly in my mind the best artist,
from my one line of blue sky to my stick figures to my triangle hair bows.
Whatever I created came to life.
It was real.
Imagination wasn’t fiction,
but the reality of the world I had created.

When I was young I lived for the innocence,
the lack of knowledge,
the absence of reason,
the fact that worries didn’t exist.
I lived for the inexistence of judgment.

I remember the desire and interest to always grow up,
so unaware of the luxuries that being young possessed.