The flea market was another one, you know. One of the staples of my childhood, I guess. I loved Waldo in particular. The iconic smell of dirt and vaguely of livestock mixed with boiled peanuts — I loved seeing the animals. I loved the deep fried oreos and shitty old McDonald's toys in a plastic tub, dirty and long-abandoned by the children that used to play with them. There's something so beautiful and raw about that experience.
Maybe I'm the only one who sees it now. Maybe I'm the only one who cares.
There's still so much I want to experience. Things I want to hold again just one more time. It's so hard to let go of being a kid. I don't think I ever really did.
Why should I, anyway? Maybe I like scraping my knees. Maybe I enjoy not knowing the value of money or the concept of politics. Maybe I love the sensation of jumping into a pool on the shallow end and bellyaching about how afraid I am of the deep end and how I need my arm floaties.
I want to be better than what I am, but I think I have some growing up to do first.
I need time. I need money. I need to understand myself.
