I don’t want to grow up.
For, if I grow, I fear that –
* I might end up shading my pictures in gray, instead of painting them red and blue.
* I might pull the teeth of a comb through my tangled hair, and may even trim down the tresses that curl around my ears.
* I may forget to run into the sea and feel the sand seeping under my feet.
* I may fail to notice the riverside flower when it is blushing at me with full beauty.
* I may sit under the grandfather tree and still neglect the falling leaves.
* I might have a half faked cheeriness in my voice and a false smile on my lips.
* I might start being afraid to go against what I am told to see or believe.
* I may find it difficult to break down my thoughts into words. I may even kill this blog.
(The very existance of this blog is a proof that I am alive and respiring, and not brain-dead.)
I fear that I may grow up to join that class of people who are burdened by ego, sickened by sorrow and blinded by emotions. I shall be disappointed if I become one.
But now I am too young to get disappointed.