I think I do?
To this day I still cannot remember much from my childhood. Memory being what it is, that could either mean that it was uneventful boring, uneventful horrific, or uneventful happy. Uneventful boring would either have meant that I had some kind of childhood malaise that prevented me from exploring the world like my body was designed, or my environment gave me so little to explore that my mind found muchness in things that amuse it, because that is the way it was designed to do. Our environment abound to fascinate and enthrall, to captivate in natures radiant beauty and blind us in awe of existence. I can understand that in some children the beauty in nature can be the allure to lead them wandering off into the sunset, following the promise of a dream that's better than the one we left behind. According to the elder in my care I was a dreamer, staring off to space and making never-ever journeys to never-never land, and though it sounds like kinda fun to leave it just like that,...