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I miss the adventures I never had.
I miss the dens I never made. I miss the trees I never climbed. I miss the forests I never walked into. I miss the rivers I never crossed. I miss the deserted houses I never entered. I miss the cellars I never went into. I miss the old, dusty stairs I never climbed. I miss what was behind all the barriers I never crossed, all the no admittance signs I never ignored. I miss the rough paths I never followed. I miss the side streets I never explored. I miss the open fields I never walked across. I miss the ditches I never jumped. I miss the berries I never ate. I miss the fires I never set. I miss the roads I never followed. I miss the caves I never entered. I miss the cliff paths I never followed. I miss the hollow trees I never climbed inside. I miss the wooden tower I never abseiled from. I miss the ropes I never swung from. I miss the frames I never climbed. I miss the walls I never jumped, the fences I never clambered over, the mysterious and magical other side that I never saw. I miss the things I never did as a child and never can as an adult because they're illegal and dangerous and irresponsible. I miss the world I never saw, and never will see. I miss the places I never went, and never will go. I miss the chances I never took, that have passed me by.
I miss the adventures I never had.
For when we grow up, we learn the truth about adventures. We learn that the dust we trawled through was asbestos, and will probably kill us in a few decades' time. We learn that the fire we set destroyed precious old-growth hedgerow, and the nestingplace of rare songbirds. We learn that the field we ran through was damaged to the tune of several hundred, if not thousands, of pounds. We learn of trespassing and breaking and entering, and we know if we are to have adventures as an adult, either they will be expensive in money and ultimately dissatisfying because they lacked spontenaity and there was a pressure to enjoy, or they will be mostly boredom and hardship with the few precious moments of discovery, if they ever come, barely puncturing the monotony. And we can't have the real adventures any longer, the ones with pirates and smugglers and buried treasure and things that go bump in the dark, and unicorns and fairies and elves and centaurs, which we could whenthe world was fresh and new to us, because we know too much about the world and its harsh realities and dangers.
Maybe the deer should be our unicorns, and the sparrows our fairies, and the squirrels our elves. Maybe we should look for flowers instead of pirates, stalactites instead of smugglers, rabbits in the dark noises.
I miss the dens I never made. I miss the trees I never climbed. I miss the forests I never walked into. I miss the rivers I never crossed. I miss the deserted houses I never entered. I miss the cellars I never went into. I miss the old, dusty stairs I never climbed. I miss what was behind all the barriers I never crossed, all the no admittance signs I never ignored. I miss the rough paths I never followed. I miss the side streets I never explored. I miss the open fields I never walked across. I miss the ditches I never jumped. I miss the berries I never ate. I miss the fires I never set. I miss the roads I never followed. I miss the caves I never entered. I miss the cliff paths I never followed. I miss the hollow trees I never climbed inside. I miss the wooden tower I never abseiled from. I miss the ropes I never swung from. I miss the frames I never climbed. I miss the walls I never jumped, the fences I never clambered over, the mysterious and magical other side that I never saw. I miss the things I never did as a child and never can as an adult because they're illegal and dangerous and irresponsible. I miss the world I never saw, and never will see. I miss the places I never went, and never will go. I miss the chances I never took, that have passed me by.
I miss the adventures I never had.
For when we grow up, we learn the truth about adventures. We learn that the dust we trawled through was asbestos, and will probably kill us in a few decades' time. We learn that the fire we set destroyed precious old-growth hedgerow, and the nestingplace of rare songbirds. We learn that the field we ran through was damaged to the tune of several hundred, if not thousands, of pounds. We learn of trespassing and breaking and entering, and we know if we are to have adventures as an adult, either they will be expensive in money and ultimately dissatisfying because they lacked spontenaity and there was a pressure to enjoy, or they will be mostly boredom and hardship with the few precious moments of discovery, if they ever come, barely puncturing the monotony. And we can't have the real adventures any longer, the ones with pirates and smugglers and buried treasure and things that go bump in the dark, and unicorns and fairies and elves and centaurs, which we could whenthe world was fresh and new to us, because we know too much about the world and its harsh realities and dangers.
Maybe the deer should be our unicorns, and the sparrows our fairies, and the squirrels our elves. Maybe we should look for flowers instead of pirates, stalactites instead of smugglers, rabbits in the dark noises.
