A theory

I have a theory: people don't grow. They just don't. They get old, they grow physically, only their bodies. Inside they are the same: concerned about what waits for them, afraid of the others thoughts, worried about what kind of memories will be left. In spite of a hard work, we are lonely children waiting for someone that come take us out from a dark place, giving some cookies and milk. And, of course, letting us watch cartoons until we fall asleep. We want desperately things to continue to be our way. It seems a better scene than reality.