I miss being a child

I’m going through some of my old things from childhood, as part of a clearout, and I’m finding it hard to get rid of them. They’re my link to a time when I wasn’t like this. When I felt really alive, as opposed to just living.

I’m not sure what exactly it is. I suppose they remind me of when I was last happy. When the world seemed both fascinating and simple, rather than threatening and complex. Every tiny thing felt meaningful, as opposed to now, when everything I do is kind of empty. My life felt worthwhile. The world was a good place to be, even if I was being bullied, or was upset about something. I still had hope, and self-belief. I still felt part of the world, even though I was a quiet, anxious, introverted kid. I may not have believed in God, but I believed that the world, and people, were fundamentally good. I believed that I was fundamentally good.

And it’s hard to let go of my memories of that person. Because there’s no going back. I can’t forget the things I’ve seen, and done, and thought since. But I can’t help wanting to feel that way again. To feel really alive.