I define my childhood as a time my doodles were free. The world was slow, except for the moon that always ran faster than me. When cities, countries and continents all meant the same thing. Cocomo biscuits had a ritual: first the picture, then the chocolate, then the biscuit. When Tom being mean to Jerry was exactly what was wrong with the world’s justice. Pens were tantamount to adult feel and doodling with pens meant thinking before doodling. When becoming an adult sounded so promising, but the part about having to talk a lot made me think twice. Walking (read: stumbling) in my mom’s heels meant feeling pretty. The walls I’d lean on to prevent falling were a support. In ever sense of the word.
The little blue globe on the class teacher’s desk was what I knew as the world. Or universe, same thing. The round shape was so easy on my little hands, the smooth texture so compatible. The universe’s biggest crisis was garbage on it’s streets and I aspired growing up and brooming the whole world clean. When my little gardening and kitchen sets were my means of service to the universe and the unexpected mango candy my mom once left me on the bedside table meant enough joy to last me a lifetime. The only fights that disgusted me existed in cartoons and my cat and the cat next door. My cat was my family so when the cat next door ever dared to misbehave with it, I had to jump in. The resultant red marks on my arms never hurt. Whenever a police van passed by our car, I made special effort to look innocent. Those big black guns in their hands were intimidating.
Years down the lane, little blue globe I knew has turned red. Tanks and bombs have made it out of screens and pictures on my cocomos are lighter. I barely notice them. I wonder what children think of the once little blue globe now and if it’s in the same place. I wonder if someone’s spinning it really fast. Perhaps we all have similar childhoods.
I’v forgotten how to doodle without aiming to make it art.
Originally published at medium.com