I’ve been having similar thoughts lately ; looking back on how I viewed the world as a child before adults put limitations to my perceptions. I could see swirls of colors and I asked my mother what they were, pointing to what I could clearly see in front of my nose, but she was blind to them. i can still see those swirls, but only in teh darkness, and without my glasses. They’re no where near as bright as they once were , neon orange and pink swirlies converging into little balls that i could catch and watch run back out thru my fingers. But they’re still there. And it makes me wonder what else is still there, waiting to be re-discovered.
When I was a child I refused to brush my hair and my clothes never matched. I’d dig up worms from the ground and pinch slugs until they exploded with a satisfying ‘pop.’ The sun bleached my unruly tresses and tanned my olive skin while I rolled through grass and around trees. I would lean over the wooden fence my parents had built to pull wild blackberries off the vine, reveling in their sweet juices running down my chin.
In class I barely spoke because I didn’t have words to articulate the myriad of images streaming through my mind. I thought in pictures and wrote stories where I was a cat living on my own in the tangled jungle of my backyard. I used fallen sticks to construct my own bow and arrows to shoot beasts hiding around my fort of trees and towels.
Recently I’ve found myself wondering what that girl in the mismatched clothes…
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