I stare into that summer morning, wide-eyed as a child. It's not one of those summer when you were little, with tiny light steps you walked, eagerly awaiting something big to happen. The world was new, and your imagination- that of a child constantly intrigued by the little wonders of the world- told you something is just around the corner- the vast world was out there, a wonderland quietly waiting for its moment to unfold.
I stare into that summer morning, but not as a five-year-old. Certain things have lost their magic. I no longer look for fairytale endings. I see life as it is, with the good, the bad and the broken. There's something particularly intriguing to me about broken things. Life. Relationships. Objects. Not whole, not perfect, but beautiful nevertheless.
I walk along the hurried crowds one particular summer morning. It's a beautiful day. The sky is a stretch of blue and the sunlight is magical. With a little bounce in my steps, I walk until the voices grow stranger and more distant. Until the surroundings fade into nothingness.
The day and the world have grown incredibly small. I stare into that summer morning, wide-eyed as a child.