On a time machine

I keep revisiting my childhood; not because i have an eidetic memory (which i don't, anyway) but because some of my finest days dwell deep down in my past. They weren't colorful as such. They weren't poetic either. They were rustic for a while before getting fondled by urban chaos. Despite all that, they had an innocent charm about themselves. Or maybe I'm thinking too much and creating images that weren't there in the first place. It's fine, i assume, to ponder from one thread of long-forgotten incident to another. The trouble, however, begins when you start living more in your yesterdays and stop looking forwarding to your tomorrows. We are part of an age where imagination is dirt cheap but petrol, shit expensive. So one has to think twice before choosing their mode of transport. I prefer mind-traveling. After all, our generation is way ahead of its time machine. To be honest, i don't know what I'm writing here but the voices in my head suggest that it's OK to be lost in words. Nobody cares what you wrote but people care far lesser for what you haven't.