What happens to the dreams we have when we are young? Is there a place they evaporate to and condense only to fall as mature dreams that fit with what we need and want in our adult life? And what of the magic of childhood souls? Could we learn to bottle it to remind us of what we lose of ourselves as we get older? Because that sparkle of a baby’s eye, that trusting smile, that laughter cradled between deep breaths… It must go somewhere, where we forget about it like fallen leaves from our favourite trees in winters past. Let’s gather this magic and keep in time capsules for the days that laughter won’t come.
For the days we forget the rhythm of vibrating ribs of delicate souls that yachted us into concrete skinned adults who will do most things to kill laughter. For if we don’t, our laughter might be snatched by bats’ talons and left as residue and echoes in caves we will never reach. Because it takes a certain octave of kindness to reach that laughter we once knew.
Most us have voices so broken that we can’t hold the smallest volume of kindness enough to fill the smallest of voice boxes. Let’s find a kinder way to sing our own love songs and revive that which we’ve lost in the quest of reaching our life’s purpose, whatever it may be.
Frank Malaba © 2018
