I'm so confused about growing up. It's as if growing up was always this secret mystical place far away, perfect in its ideals.
And then I arrive and find that the glow has dulled, the streets lay trodden and broken by those that had come before me, the wind is stale, and the sun doesn't shine quite as brightly as I'd thought. The stories I'd been told during the journey had been shined and polished more often than an army chief's boots.
What else is there to do, but to roll up my sleeves and try to make it better.
And then I arrive and find that the glow has dulled, the streets lay trodden and broken by those that had come before me, the wind is stale, and the sun doesn't shine quite as brightly as I'd thought. The stories I'd been told during the journey had been shined and polished more often than an army chief's boots.
What else is there to do, but to roll up my sleeves and try to make it better.
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