Peter Pan, come take me away to Neverland, for I never want to grow up!
How dreary it must be to be adult. They sit still, they laugh quietly (if at all), the work all day and and only dream at night. Instead of being children, they have them and raise their own. I find it just ironic that parents scold their children for being children. Working carefully and relentlessly to drain their childish spirit away. With time they will succeed.
But not for me! For I shall never ever grow up.
I shall never be too old to fail to see the appeal of sprinkles or swing at the playground or blow bubbles or write bad poetry or use made up words or wear funny hats or stick out my tongue at people who annoy me!
I refuse to turn 18! (I conveniently canceled my birthday years ago!) I shall never be adult!
I will live at state of in between, of childish maturity. I will never, ever, ever grow up though.
Not all the way, any way.
Because what's the fun in that?
Being constantly responsible is downright reprehensible.
And never making jokes... I fear I'd go into withdrawal.
And never dreaming impossible dreams would shrink hope and make it fit into a box labeled "reality".
And how boring would that be?
How atrociously common, like an ugly little weed!
Youth is fond of dreaming, but age makes dreams so tired and so weak. So realistic.
Youth is ever resiliant, but age makes things more careful and more fragile. So jaded.
Youth. There is no fountain that contains it, not potion that procures it.
And so I will age.
That is the cruelty of time.
But I will not grow up.
You can't make me. =P