There is something magical about a little girl.
I never want to let go of that little girl.
Sometimes she stares deep into my soul, my heart beating out of control as the sound of her silence overwhelms me.
Her stare becomes heavy, like rocks buried in your sweatshirt as you carry them home to brag on your new discoveries. With every year I gain, the fear of losing the little girl within me increases. My knuckles become white as snow as I stand weak in the knees, in fist-clenched denial.
Growing up is hard.
I miss the simple life of the little girl, whose imagination is from an outside world with animals that talk and humans that fly.
No meetings to attend except tea parties and fancy balls at the castle.
Relationships are easy for the little girl- no secret conditions or hidden agendas. Simply best friends who you can trust or enemies never worth a second glance.
I used to make my own jewelry and write my own songs.
I used to play pretend like it was required and never be ashamed of my dreams.
Growing up is boring, time-consuming.
Like a sneeze, it attacks you and you can never seem to stop it from coming. It consumes your body. It stops you in your footsteps, until all you can do is close your eyes and wait for it to pass.
Yet the little girl is a stranger to the concept of time.