I cannot clearly recall the times I have enjoyed my childhood, given that those were the years that I suffered with a lot of injuries I inflicted on myself: I broke my elbow; I had my ruptured appendix removed. But I know for a fact that I was acting like how I’m supposed to be: child-like. I ran through the rural streets and climbed over sacks of cement thinking that I could reach the space and conquer Jupiter and some random spider web by the electrical lines. I am so free from conscious thought. I was a child.

Now, I am in my third year at college. I see my aunt’s kids the same age as I was in my free spirit. But they grew to not be like one. They speak to me like they want to grow faster. “When I’m bigger” they say. And I guess that’s how the times have changed people. And it has taken a toll on the dream of a happy childhood: From a silly toddler who does not know when to stop running, to a kid pressured to grow as fast as how the city moves all day. Banging their horns, each small step turning into large leaps, going left and right, whatever space they can occupy. As long as they can move faster to the stop sign.

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