As we grow up, we often recede to a four wall understanding of how certain questions have only certain answers. We try to curtail our frivolity for it’s entailing criticism. We aware ourselves about how zebra crossings are just patterns and that the fences are necessities to prevent flow of water, ideas, dreams and laughter. But even the people-kind that started upon once-upon-a-time, would have known that dams often shadowed submerged sleeps. You might prevent a tributary, but how will you stop the mischief of the tickling snowflake or the flirtatious raindrop that caressed you back and giggled along, as you squirm and skedaddle to canopy and yet peeking out just to taste the flavour of fresh spray of life. Have you played with clay? How much forms can you count and create and how many will you still not be able to prevent from dreams, dancings, musings and more? A child shouldn’t be told how to grow up, they should be told how to grow old and kind and taught to rewind, many of those memories that might ebb out of their story for we were teaching them how to memories the tale rather than how to create, an ending worth recounting, again and again.