Tangled

When you sit on a swing, you can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like if you were a child again. A child who doesn’t know right from wrong, who doesn’t need to be responsible and doesn’t live by expectations.
I miss being that child. I miss being careless and untangled. I miss the swings and the merry-go-rounds and the cotton candies. I miss the ignorance and the naïve nature of a child. I want to be a child just one more time, just one last time.
“Mommy, I’m lost,” the child inside me whispers.
I sit on the swing and I want to pretend that I don’t know all the things I know. I want to remember what it feels like to be ignorant and incognizant of corruption, discrimination, hatred, racism and …
I’m a child. I’m on a swing, my feet going up and down, my eyes closed, my hair floating. I’m not aware of my mother calling me to get down, I’m unaware of the wind, the rain, the passage of time and all the ifs and buts that stand in my way.
I’m a child and nothing matters to me, but the joy of being on this swing…

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