They told us about childhood.
About laughter and scraped knees and pickup games of basketball on the street. About running around until the sun set, and knocking earnestly on the neighbor’s door on the first day of summer armed with grandiose plans and a brand-new bicycle.
When the power went out, they tossed a couple of blankets onto the roof, and the whole family curled into the night, merely shadows, fingers wrapped around steaming mugs of hot cocoa. They whispered tales - magical and spooky and extravagant - until they began to rock in their places, eyes desperate to sink into sleep.
The stories were as fascinating as any fairytale. But where have they gone? They have slipped beyond the reach of our hands that now grasp thin air. But we do not try to pull back, hold tight back these memories of childhood.
When the power goes out, we scramble - chargers, phones, laptops - and wonder how we will survive. Snatch battery packs off counters, thunder down the stairs in a frenzied hurry. When we lose signal, it is the most monumental of all tragedies.
Scraped knees are an ethereal tale, the streets lie empty, in wait, to be blessed, caressed, by the pounding feet of toddlers and teenagers alike. Long for memories of racing down with the wind wrenched out of their lungs, eyes alight with wonder, air rich with "whoops" and laughter. The golden age of human life, of embracing our position as people.
And now. Have we lost our intrinsic need to be free, to run and laugh and celebrate and feel the rush of adrenaline cheer through our blood? Have we lost our love of nostalgic childhood, of the fresh air and crisp rain and sunshine and spinning until we were dizzy? It pains the world to see what has become of us.
It is a past we gave up long ago. A past we continue to refuse.
But may not be for the worst. After all, if we did not succumb to change, would we still be human?
About laughter and scraped knees and pickup games of basketball on the street. About running around until the sun set, and knocking earnestly on the neighbor’s door on the first day of summer armed with grandiose plans and a brand-new bicycle.
When the power went out, they tossed a couple of blankets onto the roof, and the whole family curled into the night, merely shadows, fingers wrapped around steaming mugs of hot cocoa. They whispered tales - magical and spooky and extravagant - until they began to rock in their places, eyes desperate to sink into sleep.
The stories were as fascinating as any fairytale. But where have they gone? They have slipped beyond the reach of our hands that now grasp thin air. But we do not try to pull back, hold tight back these memories of childhood.
When the power goes out, we scramble - chargers, phones, laptops - and wonder how we will survive. Snatch battery packs off counters, thunder down the stairs in a frenzied hurry. When we lose signal, it is the most monumental of all tragedies.
Scraped knees are an ethereal tale, the streets lie empty, in wait, to be blessed, caressed, by the pounding feet of toddlers and teenagers alike. Long for memories of racing down with the wind wrenched out of their lungs, eyes alight with wonder, air rich with "whoops" and laughter. The golden age of human life, of embracing our position as people.
And now. Have we lost our intrinsic need to be free, to run and laugh and celebrate and feel the rush of adrenaline cheer through our blood? Have we lost our love of nostalgic childhood, of the fresh air and crisp rain and sunshine and spinning until we were dizzy? It pains the world to see what has become of us.
It is a past we gave up long ago. A past we continue to refuse.
But may not be for the worst. After all, if we did not succumb to change, would we still be human?
Sam
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