The Grand Adult Circus

The bumps that shape us—ever wonder how they really do it? That childhood glare, not exactly friendly. Candy, bread, ice cream—depending on where one grew up, it’s all about those little indulgences, right? Heartbreak over non-issues—classic.

Elephants, flowers, trees, houses, mountains, family portraits—painted with the brush of forgetfulness! Cynical games, new characters, imaginary tragedies—no consequences, no regrets. Ah, the beauty of make-believe.

Routine—how does it creep in? Not so boring at first—alphabets, counting—but soon it’s a drag, full of dullness. Water’s magic, its sorcery over everything—touch and gone. Everywhere. Everything. Remember that summer week? The sound, the spell, then poof! Gone from my sight.

Blue sky, blue lake, favorite blue dress, the car I notice—never greys and whites. Red next week, yellow after that. The colors I wear vs. the world’s palette. The charm of the new uniform—sleeping in it, waking up in it—lost it flair quicked than those old, broken toys.

That imaginary power. Remember thinking I could change adult moods? Their long faces, all day, endless chit-chat for petty morals, greasy ethics, and—ugh—that dreaded discipline.

Fear of the dark—exciting, right? Those teeth, those horns, long imaginary nails, grotesque shaking hands lived under the bed. Waiting, never appearing. Close to self-made threats, cries of self-boost—what a rush!

Everyday dullness, rare surprises. School friends, that emerging world.

Flashbacks—now I'm an adult, carrying this body but that mind, with iced layers of that once-magical water. How’s that for a twist?