what dies when you grow, aren't we supposed to develop and bloom, why does it seem like we fade, like sepiatone, how does one resist the dust that collects on their denied ambitions, and why do they give up, maybe it is easier to be born again than to grow up, seeing everything for the first time, as if it were new, try again, i wonder how many have stumbled over the things they didn't do, when they still had the passion, the greatest intentions to consume all at once their unspecified paths, i see a child with a fascinated smile, and uninhibited honesty, they glisten, they are ignorant but i envy the unknowing, that directly after actions are consequences, i wish i was still picking flowers in my grandmother's yard, blowing the heads off dandelions, wishing for a pink bicycle, it floats in the wind, somewhere in time i forget why it was so important, there's priorities now and changes and risks to be taken, it's like life has suddenly become dangerous, and i don't have an excuse to run around naked anymore.