When I was 8 years old I thought the world extended only slightly beyond my city limits.
When I was 8 years old I thought I could reach out and touch the stars.
When I was 8 years old I thought my mother was god.
When I was 8 years old I thought my father was invincible.
When I was 8 years old I thought my dreams were certainties.
When I was 8 years old I thought everyone within view was my friend.
When I was 8 years old I thought rainbows were made from magic.
When I was 8 years old I thought every picture I drew on my bedroom wall was majestic.
When I was 8 years old I thought my dogs could understand my every word.
When I was 8 years old I thought I was in love, many times, to many different young girls.
When I was 8 years old I thought that dime I found on the ground was worth a fortune.
When I was 8 years old I thought ice cream was an unalienable right—though I didn’t yet know that word, unalienable.
When I was 8 years old I thought my teacher was the smartest woman on the planet, besides my mother and grandmother.
When I was 8 years old I thought my father was the strongest man to ever live.
When I was 8 years old I thought that bruise on my knee would be the death of me.
When I was 8 years old I thought dinosaurs still existed, somewhere, and that one day my parents would take me to that somewhere and I would be able to pet them and maybe even ride one.
When I was 8 years old I thought every smile was real and every promise was unbreakable.
When I was 8 years old I thought kindness was my superpower.
But now I am 25 years old and I no longer waste my time with such silly thoughts, or really any thoughts at all.
