Fireflies and Scraped Knees
– Grisha Gautam
It used to be so simple. Trust bloomed as easily as wildflowers in spring, a boundless faith in the world’s inherent goodness. Tears and fleeting storms evaporated with a gentle hug, leaving behind only the promise of fireflies and scraped knees. The laughter was unburdened by cynicism which rested in empty alleyways.
But somewhere along the way, the wind shifted and the world morphed. Trust, a fragile butterfly, took flight, leaving behind a gaping hole, a constant ache for a time when vulnerability wasn’t a liability. The innocence you once wore like your grandmother’s hand-knitted cardigan had been shed, a discarded chrysalis on the journey to adulthood. Now, a hardened shell protects your leaking core wishing for memories of a simpler time. The world you inhabit now is one of betrayal, disappointment, and loss. The grins you once shared with such abandon now feels like a forgotten language, replaced by a sneering smirk and a guarded heart.
There’s a passion, a primal tug towards that vanished gullibility. A longing to rewind the clock, to experience the world with the wide-eyed curiosity of a kid, where shadows held no terrors, and every sunrise promised a new adventure. But the moonlight offers no solace to your silent tears. The sincerity you seek is a ghost, a wisp of smoke that cannot be recaptured. It resides in the old attic you no longer have the key to, where you can only glimpse through the dusty window panes of remembrance.
The clock ticks, and a shiver crawls down your spine. Perhaps it’s not a return you seek, but a preservation. A flicker of that childlike wonder to carry with you into the ever-shadowed landscape of independence.
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