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The whole idea of it makes me feel

like I'm coming down with something,

something worse than any stomach ache

or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--

a kind of measles of the spirit,

a mumps of the psyche,

a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,

but that is because you have forgotten

the perfect simplicity of being one

and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.

But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.

At four I was an Arabian wizard.

I could make myself invisible

by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.

At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window

watching the late afternoon light.

Back then it never fell so solemnly

against the side of my tree house,

and my bicycle never leaned against the garage

as it does today,

all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,

as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.

It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,

time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe

there was nothing under my skin but light.

If you cut me I could shine.

But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,

I skin my knees. I bleed.

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Children of Childhood: Nostalgia and the Romantic Legacy - Linda M. Austin

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Children of Childhood: Nostalgia and the Romantic Legacy - Linda M. Austin

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In this journal, Linda M. Austin analyzes the history of nostalgia. Long ago, the purpose of children was to carry on a family legacy or trade, so children were groomed from birth to be useful to society, and there was not much time for enjoyable activities. A change in society around the late 17th to early 18th centuries, when children began to be viewed and treated as people, thus marking the birth of nostalgia. This phenomenon coincided with the romantic era. Childhood, which was once simply a period of time in a person's life, was bestowed with a new reverence. Children were allowed to play and be joyful, and for the first time in history, we have records of people who feel this intense longing for their childhood, to the point of sickness.

The feeling of nostalgia is only made possible by realizing that childhood is valuable and something to be missed. There is a point in every person's life where they grow up, and while there are many freedoms that come with growing up, this melancholy feeling comes when one realizes that they will never be as free as they were in their childhood.

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Children of Childhood: Nostalgia and the Romantic Legacy on JSTOR

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Linda M. Austin, Children of Childhood: Nostalgia and the Romantic Legacy, Studies in Romanticism, Vol. 42, No. 1 (Spring, 2003), pp. 75-98

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This piece of artwork is deeply symbolic of coming of age. I interpret the image as being the same girl at two periods in her life. The items surrounding the bed are symbolic of what each of them long for. The little girl is in a more grown-up outfit, and is surrounded by makeup products. She longs to be mature. On the right, the older girl is wearing a more childish outfit, and it surrounded by children's toys. She longs for the simplicity and joy of her childhood. Even the situation of the image is significant. An afternoon nap is typically a part of a younger child's daily routine, and as you grow older, it is phased out. Many young children protest having to take a nap, and are excited for the day when their parents no longer force them to take one. But as you get older, life becomes busy and a nap becomes a luxury not afforded to every day.

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This dream isn't feeling sweet, we're reeling through the midnight streets

And I've never felt more alone, feels so scary getting old

This dream isn't feeling sweet, we're reeling through the midnight streets

And I've never felt more alone, feels so scary getting old

I want 'em back, I want 'em back

The minds we had, the minds we had

How all the thoughts, how all the thoughts

Moved 'round our heads, moved 'round our heads

I want 'em back, I want 'em back

The minds we had, the minds we had

It's not enough to feel the lack

I want 'em back, I want 'em back, I want 'em

You're the only friend I need (you're the only friend I need)

Sharing beds like little kids (sharing beds like little kids)

And laughing 'til our ribs get tough (laughing 'til our ribs get tough)

But that will never be enough (but that will never be enough)

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In the 1953 disney film "Peter Pan", Peter tells the children, "I'm warning you, Once you're grown up, you can never come back! Never!" He and his friends, the lost boys, live on neverland, where they never grow older, and they are happy with their lives there where they get to play all day and have no parents to tell them how to live. Peter is a child who is scared of growing up and facing the confinement of adult life.

It is notable that adulthood would be portrayed so negatively to a child audience. Perhaps the adults who wrote the film intended to convey to their young audience the importance of savoring your childhood while you still have it. The romanticization of childhood in the media is all around, and is introduced to children at a young age, likely causing many of them to develop a fear of growing up.

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Short Story

A short story on childhood memories

I am face down on the rough ground. I raise my head and see the doll house (human sized) standing in front of me. Some other kids run around me; I can hear them giggling. It's a bright sunny morning and the sky is blue.

I can't remember how I fell - I must have been running. I also can't remember how I've gotten up and what happens later. I know that my mother comes to pick me up at school; or maybe she is just visiting to witness the result of the fall: a cut thar runs horizontally across my forehead, then goes down my right cheek and across my upper lip (like a mustache) - making the shape of the letter C on my delicate face.

It's not a deep cut, it doesn't require stitches to heal. But I can imagine that the sight of if must have frightened her. Later that day, my mother takes a picture of my face, where I am exhibiting the war lesion with a naughty smirk.

This was probably the worst bruise I've ever had in all my life.

When I try to remember my earliest memory, that is the image that comes to my head. The low angle of the doll house, that some preschools have: in which it's possible for a kid to go inside and play.

It was before Elementary School, when I spend my days in a nursery school. Some memories from that period mix themselves: I don't know which comes first, or what happened after.

Maybe before the fall.

My father came to pick me up at the nursery school. That is a rare event: he works at another city, so he gets home a few hours after my mother brought me home. The day outside is bright. He is sitting on a short wall, at the end of a hallway - that position puts his head at my own height; maybe even shorter. He holds my waist, hugging me.

I tell him that the school took us to watch a play: Little Red Riding Hood (or maybe they just told us that story at some class). I tell him the end of the story; with my index finger and thumb outstretched, I explain how the Hunter killed the Big Bad Wolf:

"Pew, pew!", I show him with my hand.

"Oh, so he did it that way? Pew, pew!", he imitates me.

Some twenty or fifteen years later that gesture got... out of fashion. Looking from a distance and the mentality of the end of 2010's decade / early 2020's, that gesture may seem like an apology to violence. I still remember that moment as a gesture of tenderness and love - in which a kid tells his father how his day was.

My memory works just like what Freud described: I hide the fragments somewhere very deep in my mind. All it takes is for one of them to come to the surface that the other fragments follow as if they were bubbles going up towards the surface.

Or, maybe, my memory works like the sleeve of a Magician: all it takes is for them to pull a colorful scarf, and other colorful scarfs - of different hues and prints - come running after.

And so, during my idle moments, I recollect the stories of my life.

Certainly, after the fall. I've just started Elementary School. In the morning, I go to the nursery, and I go to the school in the afternoons. These are different schools, different addresses; but they are practically at the same streets. Still, I need someone to take me from one school to another.

The person in charge of conducting the crossing is the husband of the nursery's owner. Two girls go along with me: Beatrice and Manuela. They are insufferable. Before we get into the car, they announce: "Ladies first!" and get inside through the right door. I get inside last.

When we arrive, we also need to go through the right door to get out of the car (it's the side where the lane is). And I am sitting by the right door. Logic dictates that the first person to get out is myself. "Ladies first!" They are older and heavier than me, and They squash me against the car seat as they leave.

It doesn't matter if it happened before or after the fall. Oswald, my best friend: I remember fragments of us playing during recess - always imagining other worlds (a habit that I still keep to this day). Alex, she likes to pull Oswald's hair. Julio, he knew how to make, with a sheet of paper, the Map from Dora, the Explorer. Felipe (I guess that was his name), got in the nursery school some years later and, now, disputes with me the position of Oswald's best friend. Beatrice, who, besides being stuck up, cries for anything.

I can spend a whole day pulling colorful scarfs ...

NOTE: You can read the original story in Portuguese here: This short story was originally written in Portuguese for "A Memória como Matéria Prima da Literatura", a creative-writing workshop taught by Ingrid Fagundez at A Escrevedeira.

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I am face down on the rough ground. I raise my head and see the doll house (human sized) standing in front of me. Some other kids run around me; I can hear them giggling. It's a bright sunny morning...

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This song perfectly captures the feeling of childhood slipping away. The lyrics "I want 'em back, The minds we had" illustrates the feeling of lost childhood innocence. As you learn more and more about the world, you become farther removed from the simplicity of how life used to be. Although it is good to learn and to grow, once you have become disillusioned, there is no going back. The repeated phrases and quick tempo give the listener the feeling of a fleeting moment of bittersweet happiness. Although the singer is "laughing 'til our ribs get tough" she is aware that she will never get to be this young again, and she is scared of what the future holds.

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The author writes from the perspective of his childhood self. While trying to recall his earliest memories, he cannot definitively place when things occurred, in his mind, there is only before and after "the fall" - a minor, yet pivotal moment in his childhood. He uses a lot of detailed imagery in his writing, so the reader feels as though his memories are their own. The author explains that his early memories are all stored in his mind, so he works to uncover them by telling his stories.

The mind must be worked and challenged regularly in order to function optimally. By talking about our memories with one another, often we remember things stored far back in our minds, and build deeper emotional connections with one another.