For me, youth takes many forms.
Sitting crossed legged, with a yellow bucket in my lap. Watching as black-eyed tadpoles swim about; bumping into the plastic walls, but curiously never into each other. Eating slices of cool watermelon, with the juice running down my chin. Sticky hands and cheeks, and a mouthful of seeds to spit at an unsuspecting passerby. Building tents in the living room, while mother's soothing voice recites Yeats through the sheets. Followed by shadow puppets that never seemed to take proper form.
Today, my yellow bucket has turned into a shallow fishbowl, lined with vanity glass. Those who swim in it are still bumping into the walls trying to find a way out, but never a way to connect.
The sweet juices of fruit, have been replaced with martinis and red wine, and sometimes it is hard to refrain from spitting them at some of those who pass by. And the only sheets I play under these days, well, the imagination knows best.
Would my life be more fulfilling if I were still able to dress like a ballerina whenever it seemed fit, to do cartwheels in the produce section, and eat with my fingers? To not know the burden of money, the emptiness of greed, and the crudeness of love. Is innocence truly a virtue these days? Or something we are forced to let go of?