Still, I Burn

Once, the world was stitched in crayons; lemon yellows, ocean blues, skies that never ended and trees that could talk if you listened hard enough. I used to run with arms outstretched, believing wind could lift me, believing in magic found in cereal boxes, closets, the curve of a shadow. But now, the rollercoaster creaks where it used to roar. Books I once clutched to my chest gather dust on shelves too high to reach without trying. Even the stars blink slower like they’re tired of being wished on. Toys lie silent in boxes where my voice used to echo, and holidays feel less like fireworks, more like flickering bulbs you forget to replace. Yet somehow, beneath the graying, the dimming, the thinning thread of awe, I stay bright. Not in the same way, not like a sparkler, quick and loud, but steady, like the last candle at the end of the night, still burning because it remembers how much it once loved the dark. And maybe that’s what growing up is, not forgetting wonder, but carrying its ashes in your pocket, so when the wind blows cold, you still feel warm.