I’m twenty-six, almost twenty-seven actually. I haven’t watched Peter Pan since I was a kid; I don’t really miss it. How could I? The concept crawls around in my subconscious crowding out any hope of normalcy.
The line between imagination and reality wraps around my neck in a tight cord. I don’t want to live in Neverland, or London -only two choices and they both erase me. Black fades to light, and I arrive in the place I don’t know how to get to. Where do giants grow up to?
And then I’m breathing. The oxygen is again and my feet are touching the ground. Wendy wants to grow up, but Peter didn't tell her how.
