I Want To Be Afraid Of The Dark Again

I’m not afraid of the monster under my bed anymore…he left…quite a long time ago actually, though I never realized it until now. And no matter how many times I turn off the light, lie on my bed, my feet dangling off the edge and wiggle my toes hoping the monster might bite them, he never does. He left. Never to come back. No matter how many times I dare him to “boo!” me.

He has gone the same way that Moonface and the Saucepan Man and the angry pixie went. He left me just like my troupe of imaginary friends and my blue rocking horse and Kitchen Barbie. He has gone out of sight exactly like my Hot Wheels racing track and cars.

My dog’s eyes don’t gleam or twinkle anymore. He doesn’t get a case of the sniffles. He doesn’t bleed anymore when I accidently drop him down the stairs. Now, he’s exactly like all the other stuffed toys. The cotton inside of him is now simply cotton, not fragments of clouds or the mystical seeds of the Enchanted Tree. He no longer lies beside me on the bed and tells me about the mischief the other toys got into last night; how Tubby tried to get at the sketch pens but instead ended up knocking over Barbie’s wonderful, organized wardrobe; how ducky finally got the courage to swim properly in the tub…

I no longer feel posh and ‘all that’ while holding my plastic ‘wine’ glass filled with sherbet, and spouting british-sounding gibberish. I resigned from the German Secret Agency; I turned in my Russian spy identity card and all the fancy equipment; I don’t speak French or Imp or Goblin anymore. I no longer have tea with the Queen Of Neptune. I have finally accepted that Pluto is not a planet and don’t feel bad anymore that the other planets kicked him out of their posse. I got expelled from Hogwarts.

Scooby-doo and the gang don’t include me in any of their mysteries. Archie’s love dilemmas no longer seem forbidden or grown-up.

I don’t fight with my friends over who would make a better super hero; I don’t fight over pencils or fancy erasers..

Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup no longer have all the answers. Dora doesn’t speak to me or ask me for help. Tom and Jerry are not the ones with the biggest problems nowadays.

Courage isn’t just a pink dog with funny teeth, it’s a very complicated thing.

Enid Blyton is not the Bible anymore. Secret late night ice-cream spree is no longer the worst thing I’ve done. Unicorns are extinct and all the pots of gold at the end of rainbows have been stolen, and not by Capt Hook. Peter Pan grew up.

Wrong and Right are no longer two parallel lines, they’re splashes of black and white which now sometimes make grey.

I’m not a child anymore. But I’m not an adult either. I still wish the fairy godmother would come and make me a pumpkin chariot. But I know she will not.

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