Once upon
a time, the Spirit of Adventure made tree forts inside the branches of a little
girl’s mind.
When she was three, she donned her safari hat and khaki trousers and gallivanted throughout the sticky jungles and sandy deserts ofAfrica . She rode atop an elephant, a
giraffe, and a very pokey crocodile.
At age six, she traversed the green rolling hills of the English country side roaming with her rogue royalty. She needed no rescuing. The little girl was strong and quick and outsmarted all of the woodland creatures.
At age 10, she clambered aboard the ship that tossed her about in the tempest. The nymphs and Druids sang her praise. The cry of her heart's true desire beckoned her. She knew that if she kept now, believed this was her existence, she surely would fail in “real life.” So, she stopped. But, somewhere deep down she held onto that adventure, treasured it like a half remembered dream.
As she grew, the adventures shifted to reality. She voyaged from her house through the city to school. She focused on nothing but learning and acquiring. She analyzed the adventure books, experiencing them less and less. Suddenly, as if life eclipsed time, she became an adult. She locked those childlike fantasies in a file drawer alphabetically categorized under: no longer relevant.
The tedium of adulthood wore her down. The woman felt a nudge. A push. The tickling safari sense seeped through her soul. She wore the shining armor, and she became the hurricane. She went on an adventure—a physical one, so different than the attic playtime of a child.
She flew so far east that when Artemis bid farewell to the woman, Apollo bid farewell to her friends.
The tops of mountains didn't have the sound of music; they had the sound of life, humming, buzzing, harmonizing with the thrumming of her heart. It echoed of her past. The peaks and valleys came together to form a beautiful tapestry.
The ocean, clouded with mystery and unadulterated joy, held all of her wishes all of her dreams of what is yet to come.
When she was three, she donned her safari hat and khaki trousers and gallivanted throughout the sticky jungles and sandy deserts of
At age six, she traversed the green rolling hills of the English country side roaming with her rogue royalty. She needed no rescuing. The little girl was strong and quick and outsmarted all of the woodland creatures.
At age 10, she clambered aboard the ship that tossed her about in the tempest. The nymphs and Druids sang her praise. The cry of her heart's true desire beckoned her. She knew that if she kept now, believed this was her existence, she surely would fail in “real life.” So, she stopped. But, somewhere deep down she held onto that adventure, treasured it like a half remembered dream.
As she grew, the adventures shifted to reality. She voyaged from her house through the city to school. She focused on nothing but learning and acquiring. She analyzed the adventure books, experiencing them less and less. Suddenly, as if life eclipsed time, she became an adult. She locked those childlike fantasies in a file drawer alphabetically categorized under: no longer relevant.
The tedium of adulthood wore her down. The woman felt a nudge. A push. The tickling safari sense seeped through her soul. She wore the shining armor, and she became the hurricane. She went on an adventure—a physical one, so different than the attic playtime of a child.
She flew so far east that when Artemis bid farewell to the woman, Apollo bid farewell to her friends.
The tops of mountains didn't have the sound of music; they had the sound of life, humming, buzzing, harmonizing with the thrumming of her heart. It echoed of her past. The peaks and valleys came together to form a beautiful tapestry.
The ocean, clouded with mystery and unadulterated joy, held all of her wishes all of her dreams of what is yet to come.
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