Trying to recapture the fascination and imagination of childhood in adulthood is, ironically, a skill to be mastered. The world seems more inclined to make us leave it behind than to hold onto it. Try to recall that sense of wonder when discovering something new and mundane in the backyard; the creepiness of the basement; the looming presence of the attic; or that patch of woods around the corner requires patience and passion. As a child, everything seemed so strangely special and we would amass these incredible stories, ludicrous explanations, to account for them. A cardboard box suddenly became a castle, or a space craft, or a cave.
These desires manifest themselves in ideals rekindled in adulthood: The dream house, the perfect wedding, or a happy career. That sense of wonder and appreciation of the mundane and trivial, however, is tossed by the wayside. I implore you to hold your inner child close and to allow his or her silly thoughts to cloud your mind from time to time. Slow down, anthropomorphize the monotony of your life, and add zeal to the bustle between dusk and dawn.
Secret House
There is a place upon a mountain of crystal
High above city smog
A coveted place hidden in shadow
Shrouded in mist and fog
With walls clad with brick and stone
And windows of stained glass
Carpeted in kaleidoscopic flowers
With sunlight always cast
There are waterfalls and butterflies
A smell of honey and dew
A house of gingerbread, it seemed
Like a fairytale come true
Where no knees were ever skinned
But much mischief could be found
With adventures kept in every corner
And laughter thrown around
No memory was left behind
And no smiles to regret
Childhood stories forever told
That old minds could never forget
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