As I grow older I have found myself wistful for an innocence lost in me; or that I perhaps never had. Was there ever a time when a sunset filled me with wonder and appreciation, or that I cupped an insect in my hands and marvelled at its existence? Did I meet fresh faces with openness and curiosity, did I hear new voices without suspicion? If there was, it is lost in the fog.
It is a strange contradiction of mine to be envious of children, considering my own childhood was fraught with confusion and terror; nontheless, the envy burns. To know so little - for each mundane experience to be novel and exciting - is a thing of beauty. The preservation of innocence should be prioritised above all else, although admittedly in regards to practical matters it is a handicap.
My ego is not so great that I would claim to know more of the world and our lives upon it than the next man, but my patterns of thinking direct me towards the unpleasant realities others seemingly brush off with ease. If only I were able to unstitch the gordian knot where my heart should be, to purge the malaise that has permeated my sense of self.