Every neighborhood seems to have a children’s playground. Slides, swings, climbing frames, seesaws and a sign that clearly states: ages 3–6, 6–12.

For some reason, I’ve always liked lingering there.

I want to play too. Sometimes I sway gently on a swing when no one’s watching. Sometimes I sneak onto a slide, just for a moment not for thrill, but for the feeling.

That kind of joy is painfully simple.

I often wonder: why don’t we have playgrounds for adults?

We don’t need giant theme parks or adrenaline-packed machines. Our happiness can be small— a low climbing frame, a safe seesaw, a tiny slide hidden in a corner meant only for those who notice it.

It’s not about excitement. It’s about the body remembering: I used to play like this.

Many adults still want to play. They just need an excuse. So “bringing a child” becomes a socially acceptable disguise officially caregiving, secretly participating.

Adults without children can only stand aside, hands in pockets, pretending to be grown, while a child quietly lives inside them.

Some of those inner children are still loved and alive. Others are buried under responsibility, efficiency, fear, and comparison.

They’re not unwilling to play. They’ve simply forgotten how.

Sometimes I imagine: if cities had more spaces where adults were allowed to play spaces with no productivity, no competition, no proof of worth maybe we wouldn’t need to exhaust ourselves battling for status and control elsewhere.

Perhaps many of our so-called complex problems exist because the child inside us hasn’t been allowed outside for a very long time.

We don’t lack joy. We were just taught that some joys are no longer meant for us.

But I believe true maturity is not losing your childlike heart it’s knowing when you’re allowed to play again.



—— XC Scribbles · 捌拾伍 LXXXV 🛝