Pale Shroud
The Inner Child
Sunday, May 10, 2026
We should all be so blessed to witness as adults when the mere fractions of our inner child may appear before us again. Like a pale shroud, mine looks up at me with wide eyes and kindness. Because of him, I try so hard to heal those inner parts of me which have become rooted with melancholy, lust, or vanity, yet misfortune seems to follow me no matter where I wander. No matter how far I run. No matter how well I hide.
Whatever oaths or contracts I've signed, principles or doctrines I've cultured, they all mean nothing. Like a spider without his web, so too am I out of place - or so I hope. Though I am of this world and this world is of me, we mix like oil and water - or so I pray.
The orientation of my heart is but an ashen clone of a once great flame. It has since been picked apart by the tongues of men and belittled by the whispers of women. Perhaps their carping will make a man out of me yet, or—Perhaps in another life I was made to be a ghost.
What great misstep have I taken to invite such harsh critics into my home? Though, assuredly, my own critic whom I have known for a lifetime has the last say among these apes. What great error have I made to warrant such a critic as the one who resides in my own mind? It seems I have been trying to heal a part of me which cannot even be tamed, let alone healed.
Still, my inner child sits in front of me, well-intentioned and curious to a fault. Masks mean nothing to him. The novelty of the world hasn't yet lost all its color and happiness is no longer fleeting. His smile is genuine rather than feigned, and his eyes speak of wondrous things. His laugh holds the whole of the universe wrapped inside it, and the warmth of good company is only a breath away.
Good company is fatal to misery; this much I know to be true. But during my time of willingly pouring out my blood in the presence of sharks, I've come to recognize that growth and recovery are elusive in adulthood—found in the solitary corners and secluded places far from the presence of others. They come with acceptance rather than pursuit.
I have a memory which reminds me of this and frightens me deeply. One night I had awoken and found myself sitting up and reaching ahead of me, my hand shaking, and as I lay back down and again into sleep, I knew I wanted something I would never be given. To this day, I outstretch my aging hand into the darkness, hoping to catch some semblance of closeness and ardor, but I just can't reach. My hand trembles.
To be a child is to wonder and dream, but I am terrified that to be an adult is to find the unrequited. Always invisible, ever silent. What great horror it is to be created only as a steppingstone for deficient men to feel tall, or a plaything for when vapid women grow bored. And the eyes of these primates who surround me, barren and hollow, scream of devouring; their tongues of condemnation; their throats, agape and wanting, of gluttony and voracity like a brood of birdlings fresh out of the hatch.
Then I weep since I, too, am an ape!
Whatever oaths or contracts I've signed, principles or doctrines I've cultured, they are all but a whisper inside a shell of my mind's eye. They all mean nothing. I just can't reach. My hand trembles!
Yet there I still sit, wide eyed and curious to a fault. My younger self knows no hatred nor contempt. By some miracle, I still see the sincerity which had once wrapped around me the likes of which I can only dream now. I have no valediction for what I've misplaced; lost in time behind a countless number of well-carved masks, I pray that sincerity may one day find its way back to me.
In the meantime, I will allow some small piece of my character to appear before men and confront the parts of me which take up too much space among them. Still like a moth to a flame, I return to the bane of my judgment ... subterfuge and deception.
Yet I persist.
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