“I would love to see the bisons.”

I said those words nearly a year ago to a friend’s mom, who took the little time she had to drive me all the way to Antelope Island from Fruits Height in Utah. And I’m very grateful towards her.

It makes me wonder how ridiculous I must have sound, especially whenever one scoffs at me about how boring and meaningless some things are and yet I express utter enthusiasm over, like the half-well that my companion and I went specifically to look for in the centre of Chiayi city. They say you tend to lose interest in more things as your life goes by, like my parents who couldn’t bring themselves to visit other countries because “they are all the same.”

It’s frankly saddening, that fascination towards the insignificant should be restricted to the children who are learning the world. But is the world not big enough to endlessly learn about it? Do we not still find something interesting to know when we are ninety years old?

My mother commented about my twenty-something-year-old brother one evening many years ago as we rushed out to watch fireworks, “He’s like a child, always so excited over the fireworks.”

And that stuck to me. Do we not express our own joy when a child gleefully showed us their discovery of a butterfly? Is that not joy the child is expressing to us? Yet adults constantly lamented about how there is a lack of reason for joy, when there are plenty around us to feel joy over.

When one calls me a child, I don’t find it offensive. Because, at least, I understand that I can find happiness in my surroundings. For that, I may as well be the happiest adult on earth, and I am thankful for it.

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