The Lie of Adulthood: Meeting the Child Behind the Mask

"The Child in the Adult"

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At first, the child is a spark—A flame of fresh air, a mirror held up to fractured pasts.We cradle the wonder, drink from the well of ourselves,Remember what it means to be wild and soft,Before the world broke us with invisible chains.

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But the flame dims fast—The weight of responsibility slams down like thunder.Bills stack, time shrinks, dreams shrivel in the dry wind.That child we loved becomes a chore,A reminder of the freedom lost, the cage built around us.

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The system punishes not with fists but with molds—Shaping us into drones who worship the grind,Who please bosses like children seeking praise,Blind to the shackles forged in our own hands.

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We do not see.We do not feel.We forget that we were once whole, wild, and free.

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And so, the child labor continues—Not in factories or fields, but in souls trapped in adult bodies,Serving a machine that thrives on our silent surrender.

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But somewhere, beneath the dust and duty,The child still waits—Waiting for us to remember how to be free.

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