On Growing Up

Growing up.

Someone please tell me what it means to grow up. How is it different from growing down? Out? In? Sideways?

Someone tell me, because I’m scared of not knowing.

I pulled my legs a little closer to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. The twilight air felt cold on my skin, but forgiving at the same time.

In kindergarten everyone spoke of what they wanted to be when they grew up. “An artist!” “A movie star!” “A doctor!” A million little voices, confident of achieving whatever they wanted to.

I wondered where those voices were now. Artists? Movie stars? Doctors? Maybe. And if they achieved these long-time goals, did it mean they had grown up? That they, like so many other adults I know, had forgotten what it was like to be a child?

The falling darkness cloaked me like a loving mother. I wondered what the stars would say if they could talk. What do stars fear? Dream of? The history of the universe was imprinted in their minds.

The sun slowly disappeared, and with it my faith.

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