The child that once was will always look cruelly or with disappointment at what they’ve become as an adult, even if they’ve achieved their dream. That doesn’t mean that adulthood is by nature cursed or rigged. Simply, nothing ever lives up to a childhood ideal or dream experienced in all its guileless intensity. Becoming an adult is always a betrayal of our most tender years. But therein lies all the beauty of childhood: it exists to be betrayed, and that betrayal is the birth of nostalgia, the only sentiment that allows us, one day perhaps, at the other end of life, to rediscover the pureness
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