He was a nature lover, perhaps the Wordsworth of his own imaginary life. He loved to observe everything. Maybe these observations fueled his imagination and the questions swirling in his mind, a mind that was a platter of confusions, sometimes overwhelming him.
It's understandable when thoughts remain incomplete. He'd heard that writing could help, but unfortunately, he couldn't express his thoughts in words.It certainly worsens when you see faces in the sky, trees, sand, water, falling autumn leaves, spring flowers, monsoon rain, the sunlight of hot summers, the darkness of night, and the morning sunbeams. It's irritating to experience such an emotional cocktail. You don't know if you love it or hate it, if you're sad or happy. Even when you want to cry, you question whether you should cry in company or alone. It's impossible to manage when you care about everyone around you. It's not always peaceful. Sometimes you need them close, and sometimes you want to get rid of them, not because you hate them, but because you don't want to hurt them.Was all of this what that child was going through at the age of five? He shouldn't even be called a child. How could he think this way? He's only five. Why don't people consider the days, hours, minutes, and seconds that are building him into a six, seven, eight, nine, or ten-year-old? Every second contributes to shaping his mind. His confused mind platter continues to fill without anyone else's concern.