Makeshift

I can remember a different time. A time I have not lived in, but remember. An era of color and joy, far from where the world rests now, I can see it. Far from the imaginations of a toddler to the makings of an old man, I can see it. I see it and yearn for it, the it that is unexplainable but at the same time bliss. I have odd imaginings of a time when war did not plague the land, there are rich people and poor people, and they have their differences but ultimately find solid ground to stand on. A time when power is a sign of corruption, and simplicity is a sign of perfection. My thoughts of a past world such as this would confuse my neighbors. They would assume my innocence of youth had turned into madness. I keep my childish wonderings to myself.