Conversation with my inner-child


Conversation with my inner-child

I want to become acquainted with my inner-child (you know what I'm talking about if you’ve reached a “certain age” , the one that indulges in ice-cream at any given moment and doesn’t gain a pound in the process). The one who can wear tight jeans without lying on the bed to get them on in the first place, the one who can actually breathe while wearing them and the one that doesn’t go to sleep with red welts all over her tummy after the day is done.

Oh, yes, I want to talk to my inner-child...

I want to drink Coca-Cola every single day without worrying about my teeth.
Party till dawn, without feeling the effects.

Yesterday I could surf the ocean all day and come away with no more than a tan. But these days, I pull a muscle just getting out of bed. (I’ve taught myself to forget where the surfboard is hidden. Can you imagine?)

I want to race up the hill with my friends in tow, spontaneous; laughing in the wind like tiny rabble rousers, children without a care in the world. But these days it’s FitBit and tech, and it costs a fortune, without the effects.

I want to play digital games because they’re so fun, without having to make excuses like it’s play-to-earn; there’s a reason ( a sensible one). Why should I need a reason at all? (Like why should I have to? Why can’t I simply say that I need to find my inner-child).

I want magic and mayhem and midnight feasts. I want to sing in the rain (without getting pneumonia). I want to imagine dragons (no not the singing group), experience time travel (in a purpose built imaginary cardboard box). I want a skateboard and I want to freewheel off the side of the road, without getting scraped, without getting burned.

I want fresh romance and mystery not dishes and shopping lists and chores. I want to smell the perfume of roses without getting hay fever at dawn.

I want to connect with my inner child, but she’s willful and stubborn; I’m so forlorn…

I get stitches if I laugh and I can no longer seem to catch a ball.

Oh, woeful is me and my inner-child is hiking on the Himalayas without me, skipping and singing at the top of her voice

“You can’t catch me. You have insomnia instead of parties, inflammation instead of the jive. You’ve got a migraine instead of an euphoric high. You’re too much beyond me, we can connect NO MORE.”

3 columns
2 columns
1 column