Child Versus World

It is an intangible thing—

One that cannot be touched or felt,

One that is nameless and thinner than air,

And yet it bears more colors than the world has to offer.

For, it is a thought,

An idea,

A story,

A story that dares to assert itself in a cold, cynical world—

A world that, far too often, raises its nose and lifts a brow at innovation,

While clinging to dreary conventions.

The story dares to redefine boundaries,

To rewire how the world thinks.

And the world throws its head back and laughs at the child,

When the child declares it so.

It tells the child that he is delusional,

That his story is not a challenge.

But, still, the child writes,

And writes,

That story,

Because the child knows not any other way to express himself.

Surely, the child muses,

There must be room in reality for the contents of his imagination.

And the child hopes that, one day,

Beneath a tree,

Where the world is sitting,

The adult would tap its gracefully thin shoulder,

And ask it to take a look.

It will be good, the adult would promise,

And the adult would slide the book under its nose—that, mind you, is always held aloft.

Take a look, the adult would urge.

And maybe some time will pass before the world would ease up.

And maybe when it finally does, it would inspect the cover, ever skeptical,

And maybe it would draw out a sigh,

And then open the book to its first page,

And the world would read it at its own pace,

Cautiously at first, and then more passionately—

And the adult would know that he has won,

If it flips the page.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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