The first story I ever told my godchild was that of Peter. There's just something about that story that made me want to tell it to a child. I'm not a fan, and no, I've never really liked that story. But there was one thing that made me believe his name and story would be relevant to my life.
Almost every night, after school, I would carry her out and point at the sky, telling her stories of Neverland with lost boys playing with pixies and a particular watch-hunting croc. I'm sure she no longer remember those times. And I'm sure she never really understood what I was telling her, she was only 2 years old at that time.
Never would I imagine that I was not actually telling her a story, but it was I who was listening to my own mindless narrative. It was I who was looking for him at night, hoping that he was not just a name within the stories. It was I who wanted to see him.
Years passed and I entirely forgot about the small talks that my godchild and I had at nights long ago. I've stopped looking at the night sky. I stopped thinking of the boy who can fly. Until one day, before my 20th birthday, I met him for real.
His name is not Peter. It's not even close. And no he's not from Neverland. But he taught me how to fly. Oh yes, I flew like crazy. I would creep out of my bedroom window every night and travel to places I've never been before. He would fly by my window at dawn with gifts and promises. He taught me to laugh heartily and he taught me to have fun. He taught me that life is not to be taken seriously and he taught me how beautiful this life could be.
He was more than I ever thought he would be. And the good thing about it all is that he's not a myth but a real person I can be with, share lunch with, watch movies with and hold hands with. But just like in the story, Wendy needed to leave, Peter needed to fly back to Neverland, and that was how I lost him.
I wish he can come back, I wish he decides to stay, I wish he can grow old just like me. But I think, he will never be ready.
Almost every night, after school, I would carry her out and point at the sky, telling her stories of Neverland with lost boys playing with pixies and a particular watch-hunting croc. I'm sure she no longer remember those times. And I'm sure she never really understood what I was telling her, she was only 2 years old at that time.
Never would I imagine that I was not actually telling her a story, but it was I who was listening to my own mindless narrative. It was I who was looking for him at night, hoping that he was not just a name within the stories. It was I who wanted to see him.
Years passed and I entirely forgot about the small talks that my godchild and I had at nights long ago. I've stopped looking at the night sky. I stopped thinking of the boy who can fly. Until one day, before my 20th birthday, I met him for real.
His name is not Peter. It's not even close. And no he's not from Neverland. But he taught me how to fly. Oh yes, I flew like crazy. I would creep out of my bedroom window every night and travel to places I've never been before. He would fly by my window at dawn with gifts and promises. He taught me to laugh heartily and he taught me to have fun. He taught me that life is not to be taken seriously and he taught me how beautiful this life could be.
He was more than I ever thought he would be. And the good thing about it all is that he's not a myth but a real person I can be with, share lunch with, watch movies with and hold hands with. But just like in the story, Wendy needed to leave, Peter needed to fly back to Neverland, and that was how I lost him.
I wish he can come back, I wish he decides to stay, I wish he can grow old just like me. But I think, he will never be ready.
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