The Inner Monologue

To be a kid at heart means refusing to let the world sand down my sense of wonder. It’s not immaturity—it’s rebellion against numbness. It’s the decision to keep seeing possibility where cynicism would rather see predictability. A kid at heart doesn’t confuse responsibility with resignation; I still do what must be done, but I never stop asking why or what if.

It means I still feel the pull of unstructured afternoons, the thrill of discovering something new just because it exists. I still believe that a day can turn magical for no reason at all—because of a smell, a color, a sound, or a sudden flash of curiosity. It means I never quite lost the instinct to touch the world, to take things apart, to make, to build, to play, to fail and laugh and try again.

Being a kid at heart also means I remember that joy and awe aren’t rewards—they’re raw materials. They’re what I build from. It’s remembering how to look at the stars without checking notifications, how to walk barefoot without thinking about steps per minute, how to explore without needing an outcome.

It means carrying my younger self not as a ghost of innocence, but as a co-pilot—someone who still believes, still experiments, still plays. I let that kid remind me that the point of life isn’t efficiency or control. It’s discovery, connection, and the quiet, unstoppable curiosity that keeps asking: what happens next?