I’m trying desperately to remember when I grew up. My once frivolous imagination that would take me on adventures with fairies and goblins, that would engulf me in a fantastic Enid Blyton world is now filled with grown up thoughts. Where did my whimsy go? What happened to the enchanted friends of my once vivid imagination? I long for the days when I could shut my eyes and be transported into a magical world. A mere blink could rush me off into a fairytale, not the types with prince charming or long flowing dresses but the fairy-tales with talking squirrels, goblins with walking shoes and fairies with candy-striped stockings. Not even horror movies entice my imagination anymore. The creepy projections of my mind are quickly brushed off by my sensibility. I don’t want to be sensible. I want to scare myself into a frenzy thinking there are demons in my room, I want to giggle endlessly with the fantasy creatures of my childhood. I want to climb a magic far away tree, unlock the magic of a secret garden. I want to believe in magic again, in pixie dust and talking toys. Quite frankly, I don’t want to grow up anymore. Because lets be honest, the older we get, the better we used to be.