I miss that, the innocence of attraction when you began to notice and be drawn, not with lust but to beauty in form and soul, and the romanticism of a youthful heart in growth. I miss that innocence. I miss that magic.
I held onto that ideal and wonder for a long time, and then I lost it. I let the world make it ugly as I saw through eyes of the world and not my soul. Instead of wonder, I sensed shame. Somehow, I got it back, my eyes were restored, and I was given a second chance to see and sense with soul—all its wonder and beauty—instead of eyes fixed on physical form.
There is magic all around me.
I see it now in the sun rising over a field, the light of its orange orb filtering into layers: peach beneath a lighter orange with pastel violet showing highest in the sky, the shadow of the sun on the underside of morning clouds. I miss the eyes of youth, the wonder of sight and discernment not yet reasoned away by a world that gives answers but neither love nor spirit. I miss that, and yet I’ve found it once again. Maybe we really aren’t that different from our twelve-year old selves. Maybe we are still them, if we live our innocence again.