Some days ago, I tried writing a paper in the guise of a light-hearted kid, someone who could take a joke and just as easily spit one, who could turn a smile as easily as the click of a pen. I realize this is not me. I am morose as I am cheery, flighty as I am fidgety, frustrated as I am delighted by the smallest of details. Children grow up in a world of lies, but, knowing this fact, they grow up still clinging to their bottle-fed superstitions for comfort, for confirmation that, yes, they are entitled to some divine right of kings exclusive only to themselves. Then the bottle gets taken away.
