In My Own World

Growing up must be the single most destructive part of the human soul.

I was trying to sleep and all I could think about is how I want to go back. If god came down to me and said "Charlie, You get one super power." I would want to be super strong, or fast, or duh fly and then I could help other people and battle Fjord. But really I would pick a selfish power I came up with, the ability to instantly go back to your childhood. Or turn into a kid (13 and under). This power would mean nothing in making the world a better place, only giving me the ability to be lost in my own bliss of true youth.

You will never be as happy as you were when you were a kid.

The funny thing about the human condition is that we always strive for something more. We are beasts of pleasure. We create, we invent, we consume, and we love. We try to love. We keep running and running hoping there's something just ahead, just over that hill, but when you get to the end it's death. The end you finished. We keep looking and fail to realize that our life started out in the happiest form it will ever be in, the rest is just a slow decline to death.

Yes, there will be points of great happiness. You love, you give birth, your team wins the championship many that happen and many to come. But none of that can compare to the complete bliss of childhood. You worry about candy and stormtroopers, not rent or school or wars that don't deal with stars.

If I could pin point the single most happiest time of my life it would land somewhere at age six. My parents were together, we lived in a beautiful pink Victorian house, with a best friend Carson across the street. I was in Kindergarten, and I ruled, I knew my colors, I got to play with paint and blocks, and trains. I got to use my imagination at freewill, creating a world so real it still won't go away today.

All this goes in decline and is wilted away by adulthood. This idea that because your body and brain get bigger you have to eradicate all that is joyous and unknowing. It seeps in through your skin like a poison making its way to your heart and pumped throughout your entire body to every finger tip and toe, a slowly crawling dark ooze wrapping itself around the soul.

I remember going to my Grandma's funeral, I was about five. It was sunny, I had a short sleeve plaid print shirt and khaki pants. The urn of her ashes were set in the ground and a man said some things about god. I looked to my Dad at my right, his hands were folded below his belly and his eyes were closed. I did the same because he and everyone was doing it. The man stopped talking and a looked back at my Dad. He was crying, so I started to cry to, because thats what you were supposed to do.

I want that feeling back.

The sun on my bare back in the backyard. My feet tickled by their movements over the grass, my hands filthy, lathered in mud making Boba Fett fight off a hand made sarlacc pit made in the muddy spot between the shed and garden. Shooting imaginary bad guys and jumping around speaking in my own language, in my own world. I want to play.

Now they just call you crazy if you do that.