Being a child makes everything look wider, bigger and deeper. Days are longer, a vast space between morning and night. Secrets are more fascinating, love is everlasting and inner fantasy gleams with unearthly light.
I was a child with fascination for everything unusual, and dark. And now I see how darker things were when I was 10. Now the things that seemed dark are barely grey. The depth tightened, making things I loved with almost unhealthy devotion, a source of simple joy and time killers.
I don’t know if to be sad or glad. More sad, I think. Because magic you experience as a child, will never, ever come back. You can recreate it, you can enjoy, you can even think that you love things as hearthly as in those years, but the real magic stayed in Narnia and Wonderland.
Or in the depths of the Realm of Leviathan.