あさひさす
こどものこころ
まだのこる
asahi sasu / kodomo no kokoro / mada nokoru
morning light / the child’s heart / still remains
There’s a part of me that never grew up.
It doesn’t wear a watch. It doesn’t understand the word “networking.”
It still gets excited about small, unnecessary things—like the smell of a new book, the sound of gravel under bicycle tires, or watching clouds drift into shapes that mean nothing at all.
I think we all carry that version of ourselves somewhere.
Some keep it quiet, buried beneath layers of adulthood.
Some let it breathe a little more often.
And some, like me, are still learning how to listen to it without feeling guilty.
When I was a kid, I used to draw for hours—little scenes of people who didn’t exist yet. I’d wander forests near my house and pretend they were ancient kingdoms. I’d build stories out of twigs and broken glass, convinced the world was full of secret messages if I only looked long enough.
That way of seeing—the mix of curiosity, wonder, and useless beauty—never fully left me.
Even now, when I’m supposed to be serious, I catch myself staring at patterns of light on the wall, at the way steam curls from a cup, at the accidental poetry of overheard conversations. It’s not immaturity; it’s recognition. The world hasn’t changed—it’s just that most people stopped paying attention.
I once heard someone say they still feel fourteen inside.
There’s truth in that. You grow up, you work, you build things, you take care of others—but inside there’s still that version of you who’s wide-eyed, hopeful, slightly clumsy, still asking why instead of how much.
Being a kid at heart isn’t about avoiding adulthood.
It’s about carrying curiosity through it.
It’s about refusing to let routine erase your sense of discovery.
It’s about seeing a puddle and wondering how cold it is, instead of just walking around it.
I know adults who seem allergic to joy. They rush, plan, perfect, accumulate.
And yet, the happiest people I know are the ones who kept a small piece of that early softness alive—the permission to laugh too hard, to play without a goal, to be amazed for no reason.
I’ve learned that being a kid at heart is a kind of wisdom.
It’s a way of staying flexible in a world that tries to make you rigid.
It helps you forgive faster.
It helps you remember that not everything has to be useful to be meaningful.
When I travel, I try to move like a child again—without agenda, open to being surprised.
When I cook, I make a mess, taste too early, experiment.
When I meet new people, I try to stay curious, not calculated.
And when I fail—which happens often—I remind myself that learning, too, is a game.
There’s a word I love: shoshin—“beginner’s mind.”
It means approaching everything as if for the first time.
That’s what being a kid at heart really is.
It’s not pretending you’re young; it’s staying awake to the world’s small miracles.
I sometimes think the reason life feels heavy is because we forget how light we used to be.
We forget what it’s like to run for no reason, to make things just to see what happens, to get lost and call it adventure.
But that part of us doesn’t disappear. It waits.
It waits for the moment we stop pretending to be so certain,
and start wondering again.
If there’s one thing I wish to keep alive in myself, it’s that wondering.
That small, untidy joy of not knowing yet.
Because it’s there—in that small, messy space between knowing and dreaming—
that I still feel most like myself.
And maybe that’s what being a kid at heart really means:
Not escaping life, but falling in love with it again and again,
no matter how many birthdays go by.
life 