Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?
There was a time
when the road looked less like asphalt
and more like a magic carpet
that forgot to fly.
And I?
I rode my bicycle
as if two wheels were enough
to negotiate with the universe.
Butterflies floated beside me
not flying,
flexing.
Showing off their glitter wings
like they were the fashion icons
of the botanical world.
And I chased them
with the confidence of someone
who truly believed
speed was a personality trait.
The sun was my spotlight,
sprinkling warm gold on my face
like a friendly aunty
throwing blessings at a wedding.
Clouds drifted lazily above,
those soft, spoiled creatures
with zero deadlines
and too much attitude.
Every time the wind
whipped past my ears,
I felt it gossiping,
“Look at her…
thinking she’s faster than me.”
So obviously,
I pedaled harder
because childhood egos
are the safest to lose.
The road was full of bumps,
twists, loose stones
basically nature’s way of saying,
“If you fall,
I’ll give you a story.”
And it did.
Scraped knees,
dramatic pauses,
and that tiny moment
between the fall and the rise
where even the dust whispered,
“Go again…
this scene can be improved.”
There were days
I truly believed
my shadow was trying to keep up.
Days I felt the sky
lean in closer
as if taking attendance:
“Present!” I’d shout silently,
racing with dreams
I didn’t even know
were dreams yet.
Those rides weren’t about speed.
They were about that bold, silly hope
that maybe just maybe
the world was small enough
for me to explore
before lunch.
And now?
Life has turned into
traffic, to-do lists,
and grown-up sighs.
But sometimes the wind
brushed against my arm
in that old familiar way,
or a butterfly zigzags past
like a sign I once understood…
And suddenly,
the road inside me wakes up
stretching, sparkling,
smelling faintly of sunshine
and scraped knees.
Maybe I don’t ride every day.
Maybe the bicycle waits longer.
But that childhood version of me
the wild one,
the sky-toucher,
the wind-challenger
she still flutters inside me
like a stubborn butterfly
who refuses to retire.
And honestly?
I think one morning,
when the breeze gets a little naughty
and the sun looks exactly
like an old friend trying not to smile,
I’ll push those pedals again
wobbly, excited,
heart beating like a small drum.
Because some roads
don’t forget you.
They just wait.
And some dreams?
They grow wings
the moment you stop doubting
you had them all along.