less stories, more love

It’s kind of sad not having a Christmas tree in this beautiful house. Except for the music I play on my laptop, nothing really reminds me that Christmas is just around the corner. It’s my favorite holiday. My 15-year-old self described it as magical. I still believe that it is but it’s scary to put it out there.

As we age, the dreamers evolve into doers, the reckless learns to build his safety net, and the daring chooses to settle for practicality. And there is nothing really wrong with that. Society takes it as a good sign of development… Maturity, so they say. I just really wish growing older didn’t mean losing our magic: the I-could-save-the-world attitude or I’d-love-you-and-give-you-all-of-me-until-there-is-nothing-left gesture. When I think of these things, I diagnose myself with having the Peter Pan complex. Then again, I’m not scared of growing older. I actually am excited of the adventure towards uncertain futures. What I’m afraid of is leaving behind what I’ve always been so proud of having when I was 15: my strong and complex convictions, my overbrimming glass of love which I was never hesitant to share, and the way I welcome Christmas in high spirits just as the -ber months arrive.

It’s been intense clinging onto these things when the world I tread on is busy being pragmatic. One of my favorite writers said “The risk of being impractical is that you will go on to live the rest of your life with your heart on the line. This, I believe, is the big story we’ve all been waiting for. It has been beaten down by logic but it is real and, you know what? It belongs only to the brave.” So I promise myself I’ll try my hardest to not let go of my magical world, to tighten my grip a little bit more and to forever be brave.