One…

No vivid distinction of when it transitions from prime to gray, but all known fun starts to settle onto your siblings’ fingers; mind less thought of by your father, though untold of spite; hair less touched by your mother, though unsignifying of lost compassion. The house shrinks, your head starts to mill against its walls. Sprint out and you’re wandering through a city where you soon learn many versions of you that you love, are proud of, despise, are shameful of—endlessly someone new as you venture to a reflection of your face. And, one day, it’ll be horrid, you curl up like a marred thread, hoping to be picked up for better use, sewn into a clearer picture.

Two…

When young, identity is a blob. It soon develops language, which soon develops into thoughts. Falling into crisis didn’t make sense. You’re encouraged to act in a costume that piques your attention and, when wrong about the choice, you are forgiven—sorries seldomly second-thought. Play a teacher, doctor, pirate, or fairy—all of where your imagination goes, with your makeshift houses built sturdy on bed poles and blankets—and it would be glad and dainty… for you and everybody else’s eyes. It’s warm and pure, ‘til you are old and knowing.

Three…

Passion soft-shoes into mundane suffering. Some days, talent seems good for nothing. Past that youthful celebration of being great to the point of applause and medal, life will seem so… mercenary. And, the awful systems that drill familiarity will constantly beat us ‘til burnout is the best achievement we could ever brag about. Gone are the days when I admired my writer for persevering through what reality I am trying to escape. Work and weariness has replaced the life requirement of being soft and feeling. Tragic proses have replaced my romance.

Four…

I used to be shown, in very little ways, that I can be in love at the account of an ardent companion. Oh, how all of it washed off like my smile when I thought at one moment, love is enough. Love is something I’m required to afford. Sometimes, it wouldn't matter who or how genuine because, suddenly, you become aware of the debt upon birth—sacrifice—the only kind of love you’ll be pestered into mastering. With age, you get lost among things and people you have to let go. You bathe in pieces of them they left, which you’ll have today and forever. Again and again, you’re seven years old, squalling over the little toys and clothes you’ve outgrown. When childhood is over, most doors you thought you could journey to weren’t meant for you.

And, five…

School campuses become cloudy mental pictures. The laughter of your friends become overpowered by the loud civilization demanding you to keep your face straight. People will grow, you will grow, everyone will go on with their adventures and you will be there to support them just from afar. On every birthday, the number of candles epitomizes how much innocence you’ve lost, until no one anymore bothers to even set the candles up for you.

Years later, alone in your room, you’re forced to accept that it’s just time doing its work. That growth is nothing personal. And, you do not have to put out the fire of what sprightly affection you have for your life and your people because you will always have your inner child reminding you to personify the youth you wish you still memorize, even in the presence of truths life is adamant to put you through. And, those truths go beyond just one to five.