Paradise Lost

Some time ago I was a child. I don’t quite remember how, or when, or why I changed, but I can say for sure that I am no longer what I once was. At some indefinite point in time, I was forced out of an Eden I did not want to leave, for no sin of my own, but as a result of the irreparable faults of mankind.

Nothing in this world is definite. Nothing is guaranteed. Reality is an illusion, and failure is a great reality.

There was a time when I was happy. Everything was beautiful, joyous—alive. On occasion I again catch a glimpse of what life used to be, as I pass through long-forgotten realms: elementary school corridors, where teachers no longer remember me, or where they recognize my face, but haven’t a clue of what I have become. Or the school yards and the parks, with their grand maples and oaks whose dense foliage creates cool shadow-patterns on the ground on bright sunny days; with their cool, rich earth and lush grass, and dusty baseball fields where we used to kick up the red sand and watch it rise into swirling ghost-figures in the wind; pines whose dropped needles became our fanciful chains, and whose sap was tentatively sampled, but found bitter, and the pigeons that ate out of our hands; camping trips where we delighted in catching frogs, and in the process fell into murky puddles and got our pants spattered with mud; where we huddled gleefully at night, and fell asleep to the songs of crickets and rain that gently pattered against the tents. Oh, how happy we were!

Now I look around and see a completely different world. All is dull, dark, and depraved. An evil gloom broods over the earth, and misfortune and misery cloud our sight. There is no longer a place for the carefree, the bubbly, and the bright. A great and incapacitating burden lies on my chest, placed there without my knowledge or consent—it appeared suddenly and crushed me. Stripped of my dreamland fantasy, denuded of a warm, comforting blanket and deprived of my beloved stuffed bear, I stand solitary in a cruel and cunning world. Destabilized, awkward, and confused, and seeking the comfort of home, I struggle to return to my childlike state. But regression is impossible. I cannot blind myself to the danger and disaster that lurks about me, and whose claws clutch at the air. And so in a weary world I strive to beat a path that will take me someplace without misery, where I can indulge in simple pleasures once again. A great number of others with the same end in mind struggle with the same perseverance—but many fall along the way. And who is to say that I won’t end with them?

Sometimes I see children at play: laughing, singing, or talking of trivial things. Eyes twinkling as they devour dripping popsicles in the summer heat, mouths messy and shirts stained. Splashing each other at the pool, or building sand castles at the beach. As I watch, the tears begin to flow. I wonder if I should, if I could, join in. Then I remember the costly knowledge I have gained, and become shy, guilt-ridden and helpless, and step back into my own gloom, not wanting to disrupt their fragile and fleeting world of joy.