That would've been totally fine by me, to be raised by children - after all, it's not like I ever believed that they had some deep insights into the world that couldn't occur to some bright children. But the fact is that they always insisted that they had some deep insights into the world we shared, and it seemed too obvious to me that they didn't.
In this respect, I realized since I was little that adults were no different from children in general and that they couldn't be trusted just on the premisse that they were adults. Sometimes, as a kid, I would hurt at the schoolyard, playing with my friends. I concluded that the same was true for adults - life had replaced their schoolyard, and the heavy, harsh experiences brought about by it were now their friends. Their wounds, instead of physical, were now psychological. They had lost something - perhaps courage to challenge, open-mindedness, independent thinking, empathy and capacity to have fun; they had gained other features which I didn't like, such as hatred of what is different and fear of losing something which I didn't immediately knew what it was, but later realized was self-esteem and pride. So there it was - the reason as to why everytime adults were challenged on anything, they reacted as if you were taking away a toy from them. They had never really stopped being children in that sense: their self-love and pride and joy were at risk everytime a child tried to understand, to inquire, to reason; when curiosity knocked on the door, the whole foundation of the building would shake. This was all they had - the hard-cooked remains of a happy, carefree youth.
I think that's one of the things that broke apart my spirit when I was a kid. That's what, I think, was the death of an otherwise psychologically healthy kid - the early realization that I couldn't trust anyone to take care of me. "No - I need someone", I thought. I desperately searched for a true adult - someone wise and fun; someone to grab me and save me from the other insensitive, scary children; someone who understood and was not afraid to understand more.
My grandfather threw me a short, fragile rope (it was all he could give) - I grabbed it, I tried to cling to it and go up the well of desperation I was in. But I couldn't go all the way up - not until later in my life, when I was strong enough to climb all by myself.
Now, as a grown child (and not an adult), I look at the well with a certain nostalgia - the dark room where my mind lived in is no more.
Now, as a grown child (and not an adult), I look at the well with a certain nostalgia - the dark room where my mind lived in is no more.