But the Hook brings you back...
Why is that when we grow up, we lose the imaginations that we once so relied on? I think back the active imagination that I had, way back in the days of old, and I ask myself "Why I can't believe in things so completely as I once did." I remember those days as if they were yesterday. And then, thinking they actually -were- yesterday, I try and recreate the phenomenoms that I used to bombard myself with. One things after another. The miracles never ceased to exist. Until that one day, that I grew up. I didn't see things the same anymore. Everything was in black and white. The technicolor was no longer there, and life was just so... lackluster. Now my imagination is put to the use of furthering myself in life, for work, not pleasure. And then, when I realize this, there is nothing to be done. I cannot change it. That's just the way it is. And that's when I feel that emptiness inside, where the yearning for adventure, the need to be different, the wanting something so much grander, had died. And I don't feel so complete as I did when I was blind to the fact that I'm not a child anymore.
I wish I were Peter Pan. I wish I had never grown up.
I wish I were Peter Pan. I wish I had never grown up.