The River of Innocence

Today I waded through a river of children. I was making my way through the swamp of adults when their sound first cascaded across my intrigued ears adding youth to earth's old morning. I heard the pitched current attack the selfish environment as I approached. Then I beheld it. Chaotic as a tempest; wide as the Mississippi. Moving swiftly at points and languidly at others. The river reached waist high. Intimidated, I stood and studied its pouring patterns until I felt secure enough to cross.

Then I began to ford the broiling mass. The first step was the most difficult because the waters felt foreign. But the second and third steps came with increased ease as the river washed the quagmire's mud off of my beaten boots. Now, with half my body submerged, I felt the current's tug threaten my stance. But I resisted its pull and persevered even though my heart almost gave.

When I was finally across I turned and looked back with a feeling of loss. Though I was bodily sound, I could not shake the feeling that something had dislodged from within and been swept away by the cherubic flow. I sighed and continued on through the adultian marsh with the gait and posture of a broken old man. The sounds of the river grew dimmer as the distance increased until they blended completely with those of the pragmatic landscape ahead.