Wonder keeps me alive.
I want to see the world like a child does, to make believe and keep the beliefs I’ve made and hold them for as long as I’m able. I want to forever marvel at the beauty around me, the magic.
There’s a blood-red rose perched on the top of a branch hanging over the walkway out front. It towers over my head, unreachable and unknowable and eternal.
The light of the moon shines down on my face in its strange, lovely, lonely way that makes me feel just as strange and lovely and lonely.
I don’t want to think about the vibrant blood of the rose seeping out in the sunlight, the wind stripping the bleached petals and scattering them underfoot.
I don’t want to know that the moon doesn’t emit light, that the eerie, wondrous glow isn’t the magic it feels like it is, that it comes from something utterly explicable, measurable, knowable.
I want the rose to live and the moon to shine.
I want the stars to be tiny twinkly things, perfect and shining and real and always, always changing.
And when I bring them into my living room to watch them dance across the walls and glow from the ceiling I don’t want to think about the little plastic globe projecting light through star-shaped holes, or the next pattern of stars it will show or that there’s a pattern at all because I can’t unknow that and I can’t unsee it and I can never again wonder at it with a child’s eyes, never re-make myself believe once the magic is gone.
But I will keep finding things to wonder at, things that still hold that inexplicable magic, things that will let me see again. I will keep believing and making and making and believing because the day that I can no longer look at a single thing with pure, innocent wonder is the day that I stop looking at anything at all.