Last Stand of an Inner Child

"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things"...mostly.

I still dream as a child, though nightmares grow steadily darker. The youthful monster under the bed has been replaced with the uncertainty of ordeals that lie ahead. Nightmares being nightmares, you're powerless to stop them. But a child's dreams, even the grim ones, are ever marked by wonder. To dream as a child is to see the potential and beauty in the unknown, even if boogie-men lurk beyond. Anxiousness is overpowered by lightening-fueled ambition. Adventure overrules trepidation.

I still hope as a child: with that naive assurance that, no matter what; everything will be ok in the end. Somehow. Some way. That's not to say a solution will save the day. But rather, that one's struggles will ultimately enrich their character. The hope is not for some magic potion quick-fix, but that challenges will be met, faced, and learned from. To hope as a child is to put faith into something without evidence, because the 'good guy always wins'. Childhood hope in an adult shell is the understanding that the good guy may always win, but he does not always succeed. His win is more the ability to endure rather than the ride off into the sunset.

I still imagine as a child: uninhibited and without direction. The creative mindset unbound by social pressures or obligation travels to realms unreachable, otherwise. Children can weave tapestries of color and shape unlisted in books and not yet added to Crayola's biggest box. It’s to imagine without shame at what you're imagining, with energized eagerness at what the fantasy may morph into. A sad truth is that it's all too easy to get lost in fantasies, especially when they are allowed to run free. But without that freedom, they can never fully bloom.

I still laugh as a child: loudly, unabashedly, and with the full joy of the moment. A child's laugh is the embrace of pure happiness, regardless of complexity. A well-written and articulated joke is equal to an appropriately-timed fart in comedic merit. There is no gauge of what's acceptable or appropriately funny. What's funny is simply what makes you laugh.

And finally, I still lie as a child: in the belief that my deception will be so convincing that I, myself, will believe it as truth. I note that because this article is a lie, at least partially. I cannot dream without my thoughts getting halted by a wall of reality. Life told me to grow up. I cannot hope without evidence or proof that my goals are realistic. Don't want to be let down, after all. I can't imagine without wondering if I'll lose myself to fantasy, to the point where what's real blurs with what isn't. I worry that I'll begin to believe what I create. And lastly, my laughter is only as loud as the social context calls, or as unabashed as the source. A funny moment cannot be enjoyed without first measuring how it will be received by those around me.

Why did I lie to you? Why did I claim to dream, hope, imagine, and laugh as a child when the only accurate thing I did was lie? Is it because I intend to tear down old childhood ideals, or because the first step to getting those things back is, well, to do them?

Here's the truth:

I dream of being able to aspire with boundless ambition.

I hope to believe in things I cannot see or touch.

I imagine creativity without bias or restriction.

And I still laugh at fart jokes.