I miss waking up early on Saturday mornings to watch my favorite cartoons.
Now I struggle to wake myself up, even in the afternoon.
I miss wearing zebra print leggings under neon pink skirts and Hannah Montana shirts to top it off.
Now the worries about people judging the dirt at the bottom of my shoes to the fabric of my cardigan consume me to the point of anxiety.
I miss being excited about Christmas. I miss waking up early and running out of my bedroom in my pajamas to sit around the Christmas tree and open gifts. I miss making cookies for a Santa I once believed in.
Now I know his existence was a mere tale.
Now Christmas itself is a mere tale to me.
I miss believing. I miss believing in fairies and elves, and having adults feed me those tales to keep my imagination strong.
I miss dancing around the room like no one was watching. I miss dancing to music that actually had a meaning.
Now, all I hear is deafening dubstep and meaningless, degrading rap. Now all I see is grinding.
I missed when I could sing at the top of my lungs, and no one would say I was bad even though we all knew I was.
I miss when the most dramatic thing at school was two seven year olds holding hands under a desk, not finding out drugs were killing your best friends.
I miss being young. When I’d see celebrities on big screens and wish to be like them one day. Now I know who they really are, all their messed up scandals and drunken photos taken by paparazzi.
I guess what I miss most is being a child. I don’t miss my childhood, but I miss when I was young. When I wasn’t stressed about school, when the biggest worry of my life was if Miley was going to get with Jesse or Jake, and when I could always be happy.