There is no elegant, poised way to clutch a crayon. As your fingers fist-wrap around the wax and shoulders hunch instinctively over paper, this world of adult falls away in scales.

The little stub of wax; is now the portkey to the land where imagination startles bright, where friends are forgiven with pinkie-hugs and “I want to be a discover and a explorer and a scientist and a writer and a doctor” is more within grasping distance than ever. “Draw outside the lines, the sky doesn’t have to be blue…” the voices different from the ones that built the scaffolding around you when you signed away your day between 8 and 5.

When the amnesia of adult sets in, and the priorities of living cloud and numb; find a crayon. Hold it.