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It always seems so comfortable to let someone else define us until
breaking out of our shell becomes so much more interesting...
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Becoming a realist is an exhausting feat. Suddenly the world
isn't warm and pastel anymore and we see people for what they really are.
We learn when to trust and when not to, what to say and when to say it.
We become political and troubled and sometimes quiet and at times feel too complex.
The world is not black and white but ambiguous: shades of grey.
The Easter Bunny does not exist. Tragic.
A short while ago, in the middle of some conversation about (blank) or other
someone asked why. Why are we talking about (blank)? Because
(blank) is real. And then I was told that I need to relax.
In all of the gloom, how do we get sparkle back into our lives?
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