I find the idea that one day, we all grow up from something we loved our entire lives, and don't even think about it, depressing.
One day, we just don't do, play, or check that favourite thing that was the source of endless happiness.
We don't think about it and it just kind of drifts away. We don't think about it because we don't want to come to terms with this sad reality.
And when thoughts drift back to "..wait..why did I stop..?", we quickly try to justify it with mundane things like "oh, I got busy." or "job, kids, family, responsibilities"--all cliche non-answers.
Deep down we know all those things aren't inherently mutually exclusive to what we loved and cast away.
And yet..
And yet we force ourselves to not turn around and see that little, colourful, paper ship that sailed.
Not because we don't know it has left us and we left it.
But because the sight of what we lost would rush back a painful reality.
The reality that at some point, where no number can draw this line, we just grew up.
