Nothing touches him. The tall grass is running, waving at the quivering trees. The wind rushes, and then it turns still. He is on a tire swing, shaded by his favorite, familiar branches. His hair is silhouetted against the red air; the sun falls asleep to his smile. He swings against the wind, the rubber making his hands black. He does not think, he grins. Loose shoelaces scratch the dirt, ants scatter. He is a daydreamer, completely unaware of the world. Leaves mumble to each other, the wind cracks and the stars are unleashed, burning. He is not a doormat for anyone. Childhood is the only kingdom where nothing dies, where impossible characters and fantasies are your playmates. His mind is constantly imagining, he goes back to a tower and listens to dirty minstrels praise him, he is a father and an elephant in the same day. The dandelions he blows to the sky turn to sprinting wolves before they touch the ground. & He is always a hero, and still, nothing touches him. This is his sanctuary, his only home. One day, he will grow up and find himself saying things his parents used to say. Today, he lies on the ground, whispering stories to the earth as his mother calls him in for dinner, far away in an unreachable, untraceable world. But he closes his eyes; this world is his, this tire swing is the throne of the oak-tree castle, and right now...
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he
is
the
prince
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