As we grow up, we often recede to a four walled understanding of how certain questions only have certain answers. We try to curtail our frivolity for its entailing criticism. We aware ourselves of how zebra crossings are just patterns and that the fences are necessities to prevent flow- of water, ideas, dreams and laughter. But even the people-kind that started at a once-upon-a-time, would have known that dams often shadowed submerged sleeps. You might prevent a tributary, but how will you stop the mischief of the tickling snowflake or the flirtatious raindrop that caressed your back and giggled along, as you squirm and skedaddle to a canopy and yet peeking out just to taste the flavour of a fresh spray of life.
Have you played with clay?
How many forms can you count and create and how many will you still not be able to prevent from forming into dreams, dances, musings and more?
A child shouldn't be told how to grow up, they should be told how to grow old and kind and taught to rewind, many of those memories that might ebb out of the story for we were teaching them how to memorise the tale rather than how to create, an ending worth recounting, again and again.