Let me tell you a little story. But wait, before I go any further, you should know that this story is not real and that any resemblance it may have to a true story is purely coincidental (no it's not). You may find yourself enjoying it, you may even relate to it, or you may think it's crappy or cheesy, in which case I will totally understand. Anyway, enough with the chitter chatter, and here we go.
There once lived a little boy in a little house in a little village in the middle of a little island. This little boy, he loved everything about his life. He appreciated the fact that he could talk to trees whenever he wanted to, he was absolutely fascinated by the way the deep blue sea and the big beautiful sun made love to each other on an almost cold yet still somehow warm September morning, he loved seeing the flowers smile as the gentle breeze caressed their innocent pretty faces. Mostly though, he just enjoyed taking it all in, bit by bit, second by second, hour by hour. He knew that everything he would ever need was right there, right there in front of him. He was sure that no matter what life held in store for him, that that was going to be enough.
And then the little boy grew up, and it wasn't. It was no longer enough. He knew that eventually, sooner rather than later, life, and his love for the little things, would come running back to him. So he waited. He was always a patient boy, and so waiting had never been too much of a problem for him. He waited, on the front porch, for the caterpillar to metamorphose into a beautiful butterfly, for his little brother to come back home to him, for winter to turn into spring and then into summer. Yes, this little, now grown up boy, had no trouble with waiting.
And then he grew up a little more, and he got tired of waiting. His little house in his little village on the little island stopped giving him everything he once thought was everything. Or maybe it didn't exactly stop. Maybe, just maybe, he just stopped seeing it. And so, with his heart on his shoulders, he did what he thought was best, not for everyone, just for him. He was not selfish or anything, he just felt like he needed to do it, he felt like he had to. So he left.
He left and he kept on leaving. Eventually, he settled in one place, on another island, a much bigger island (not much sunnier though). Here, the people were different, maybe better different, maybe not. He still hasn't figured that one out yet. What he realised though, was that on this island, being different, weird rather, was okay. It's okay to talk to trees, to smile to yourself in public, to have an existentialist crisis (whatever that means). It's okay to just be you, good and bad.
He misses his little island sometimes, the sea and the sun making love, the sand looking at both of them and cracking a smile while trying to close his eyes. Oh yes, he misses it. But it wasn't his fault it stopped giving him what he thought he needed. It wasn't his fault that he grew up. He never asked to grow up. "Growing up is for amateurs", he thought.
So now, an expert on growing up, he decided to make a very elaborate plan. Okay, maybe not that elaborate. He decided, once and for all, that against all odds, he is going to stop growing up. Not in a Peter Pan kind of way, but rather in a boy-with-his-heart-on-his-shoulders kind of way.
Because only then would he be able to go back to his little island and feel as if nothing has ever really changed.
The End. (or The Beginning).