This child jumping around with a smile on her face, naked.
Not only is she naked of clothes but naked of the harshness of reality.
No one has to tell her she is beautiful in order for her to believe it. She has not been tainted by either the sun or the falsities of our social structure, her blond hair has not been bleached by whitewash it was bathed naturally in my home, yet i am not her mother.
She has grown to three years at this time, she is a vision of what once was, a vision of how ignorance is bliss, but what is bliss?
Is it running around naked in your home singing to yourself?
You can learn a lot about being a child by watching them, you laugh, play, sing, watch. But you also cry. You cry for yourself. Pure selfishness.
Maybe being a child isn’t in the right? Maybe it is? Adults, as much as we try to say we are selfless and loving and we preach that everyone is equal, but no one is as important as ourselves or our loved ones.
Maybe, we are children. There is always much more to master.
I still have to remind myself that no one has to tell me i am beautiful in order to believe it, but that used to come naturally.
Life does not have stages or complexities it is a jumble of how we string ourselves together, with other people, with all of the stupid quotes we use to line our memories so we can feel meaning. I said we adults, did I not? I am no adult, I am no child, I am no teenager, I am alive. The living breathing feeling of being that is who i have become and who i will become. The half alone, half full to the brim with lyrics from a band i don’t even listen to anymore. “Who am I?” says the blind child running naked, I say “alive.”