Most of the time, I operate in the naive bliss usually reserved for certain underdeveloped grammarschool children - skipping about, shamelessly, completely engulfed in a world of my own making where things are fair, the sun ever-shines and cakes of all flavors have zero calories.
In this little land o' mine, you and I and all of our ilk are precisely on the same page.
We think the same, act the same, want the same.
And while the first two in this list are endlessly fascinating, it's the latter - the list caboose - with which I am presently obsessed.
In short, I think I stumbled in my fields of flowers today to realize - completely winded, on my back, with dirt in my hair - that you and I don't want the same.
Surface-level thinkers can take that one, scamper off with it, and write a banal thesis. But I? Am going to lay (lie? I never know) here on my back, and take in an even deeper *gasp!* of realization.
Because I am pretty sure that you and I wanted the same things once...and I still want those things...so...therefore...you. must've. changed.
And now, like a child, I am angry at you.
Angry for changing our plans.
Angry for changing our wants.
Angry for changing our lives with your completely unfair desire to grow up, have a mortgage, have a house, have kids.
When all I seem to want to do is be one.
If you were here? I'd slap your face. Throw a fit. Push you down in the mud.
Because that's what children do when they're hurting...
Best friend? Best friend! Where are you going?
And why are you leaving me?
When did you decide to trade play palaces for ranch-style houses? To don a suit and "sensible" shoes and drive a sedan to work?
When did you decide that tangled hair and dirty knees had fallen away in favor of finances, fiances, and fetuses of your very own?
Was it when I was off jumping or climbing or crawling through Neverland woods?
Because I swear, you were just here beside me in the brambles.
Did I get lost or did you?