A Letter to Neverland

Do I start with "Dear"?

Just "Peter."

Peter: Attempt 636 failed.

I think we’ve begun to suspect that we’ve forgotten how it works.

Which is absurd.

But that’s a lot of times to fall.

(It’s one of these, I just know it.)

When things were all chess or checkers, life was simpler.

When a box of sand built worlds, or served soup

and sides, everything was simple.

Everything was black or white.

Do or don't.

Dance or play.

Abandon or command.

And now…"I can't."

I pause.

I don't know.

I don't know.

I don't know.

That was the model of 207--crashed the same way, too.

The letter?

Oh, yes.

Peter, we always said we'd never leave.

And then, one day, we flew away.

I'm not sure why; I think we got caught...

...in an updraft!

It was an updraft with tendrils.

Long and fluid, wrapping around you before you know

you’re in them. And then you just sail away...

That's right--it wasn't really our fault.

Not really.

Well, whoever’s fault it was--we’re here, now.

The world of grown-ups is a scary place, Peter.

Especially to a grown-up with the soul of Lost Boy.

Or is that all of us?

It’s like being caught forever somewhere between--

--BIG--

--and small.

Big choices.

Big consequences.

Big jobs, big houses,

big vehicles

(what’s wrong with a simple bicycle, anyway?)

Big people who remind you that they’re

big and that they expect you to be, too,

but not as big as them.

If you call out, your voices echoes on three

continents, instead of dying a singing,

cheerful death against three cave walls.

Small people, who kill each other over toys and pretend they’re somebody. Small choices that hunt you in packs.

Being too small to really make a difference

and too big to hide.

It's confusing.

There, it was simple. But here:

Good guys don't wear white hats.

Good guys don’t fly.

Sometimes, the pirates do.

And even the worst pirates sometimes smell of--

Summer winds!

Nights spent in trees

Memories of Mother.

Sometimes.

And sometimes, the Indians carry hooks and swords.

That's the worst.

Absolutely. The worst.

It's confusing.

There, happiness was as free as air.

And if you lost it for even a second,

You just gulped a lungful and the pain was over.

But here, you have to look for happiness--

A treasure hunt that never ends.

I’ve seen them try everything; and then try it again.

And they know they haven’t found it,

but like a bird beating itself senseless against a window,

they keep trying.

The treasure hunt never ends.

And there are lots of losers, Peter.

And it's not a game.

But when you do find it, it means something.

It's fathomless, delicious and intense. And it--

--changes you forever.

You can’t keep inside.

You don’t want to.

You want to tell everyone.

Because you’ve got

so much of it, you have to spread it around.

And because of biggness and smallness--not

everyone wants it.

Tell him the hardest part.

There is no flying, here.

Gravity is too strong.

No "happy thoughts" could ever defy our feet

And take us

Up, up, up, up!

Everything is different.

Happy thoughts here are little fires,

Burning away like small furnaces in our souls.

They keep us warm at night.

But perhaps the most perplexing is the color.

When I Grew Up, there was a sudden--

--"Moment"

A blinding moment, full of growing pains.

An electric shock, illuminating the present.

A terrifying moment

When the checkerboard fused,

Swirled, became indistinct--

And now my world is gray.

No more chess or checkers.

No one can agree where to play the pieces.

And once upon a time, I knew.

I thought I knew.

And now…

I don't know,

I don't know,

I don't know…

Your friends,

Orville and Wilbur Wright.