But we do grow up anyway!
“Lost boys! Lost Boys, where are you?”
I screamed through the bushes, flying through the enchanted land.
Some Pixie dust sprinkled through my trail, as I lifted myself in the air and flew towards the lake,
and while searching thoroughly in the shadows of thick branches and the smell of wet grass and wildflowers, I asked the mermaids if they’ve seen them, and they shook their small heads and wiggled their fins as they resumed their swimming.
“Lost boys! Lost boys where are you?” I woke up from the dream, yelling.
‘I was dreaming of Neverland again’, I smiled, as I thought myself as Peter Pan flying around like a miracle through the beautiful world of fantasies and wishes.
I wish I could be like Peter Pan, the child who never grew up, for it’s a trap and he knows it, in his childish innocence.
I think we all have a Peter Pan within us, hiding in our dreams, flying through the Neverland, keeping us young at heart. Peter Pan, though living the dream of never growing up, longed for a mother. He eventually found Wendy, who, he thought, was suitable for the role. But Don’t we all, at some points of our lives, wish to stay in her loving lap for eternity? True, we never really grow up for a mother after all.
Like Peter Pan, we live inside stories and lifelong dreams of conquering every one of those stories.
Like Peter Pan, we touch lives of those who are lost to help them find their way, and someone to touch our lives to help us find ours.
But we do grow up. In a few days, or years, we wake up from our lazy sheets, twenty years old.
I, too, won’t stay a child forever, as I see my innocence washing away in seasonal rains, committing sins I prayed against when I was 5, losing parts of myself like a tree shedding leaves in every fall, like an old ritual. My sweaty fingers could point towards the dying fire in my voice, and the blood racing through my veins leaving every ageing cell of my body to burn themselves like a phoenix, to give away space for the new ones.
No one sings a lullaby to me, no one bats an eye when I fall anymore.
I’m running short of questions, and whenever I feel something dripping from the corner of my mind, in between too many glasses of wine, I don’t care to pursue it, not anymore.
This is what growing up feels like, I reckon?
Like sitting in between two songs on the radio, waiting for a punchline.
Like visiting the junction between hoot of guffaws and silence, spotting truths and lies with our eyes closed.
Like building a home between Neverland and the colonised world, wishing to never grow any older.
There is a Peter Pan within us all, he’s just not calling us anymore, for we aren’t lost, and It’s kind of okay in the end.