Our innocence walked the plank that year. We were no longer children.
One by one, we experienced the inevitable growth into a new world. We were introduced to war and broken hearts. Some built invisible ice castles around their fears, and others grew hearts even colder. Spilt milk did not cause tears, but secondhand smoke did. Adulthood arrived, and there was to be an endless battle between tragedy and beauty, to the point that both would merge and soon everything would be a bit of both. We were all beautiful tragedies, alive and lonely.