This morning is no different than any other morning of a late teenager,(I’m 18, by the way) the sun is shinning, the birds are singing and I’m…well, I’m doing what I always do – starring each morning, for half an hour at two thin white strips of hair that have emerged since two weeks ago. I couldn’t bring myself to tear them off; I want to gaze at my own mortality. I have a confession to make. Ever since I was little, I never wanted to grow up. When other kids asked me if I wanted to be a grown up soon, I often lied. I always felt bad about it, and it’s true, I’m not trying to defend myself. I told the truth once or twice and then everybody avoided me. I just wasn’t normal enough. Even now, I don’t think about growing up, although it’s always on my mind, eating brain cell by brain cell, subconsciously. The happiest days in my life were from the age of 4 until the age of 6. I spent most of my childhood on a farm, with my grandparents. I can still smell the wheatgrass juice my grandma always made. Back then, I was pure, without preconceptions about life, so I drank it energetically, and that was a good thing. Today, I probably wouldn’t do the same. Now you can buy a wheatgrass juicer, plug it in, and sit back and relax. But I prefer the old days. The wheatgrass juicer might be very useful indeed, but for those who experienced the art of making wheatgrass juice without any modern technology, nothing compares with the time spent around the melting pot. You see, wheatgrass juice is very special, it’s a sort of cure of cures at the countryside. It’s good for everything, from kidney problems to a simple influenza. I haven’t checked it myself, so please don’t ask if it really works. All I know is that it’s really tasty. Wheatgrass juice, unwillingly, has become the hallmark of my childhood memories, the bitter-sweet refuge I take in order to escape to a world of innocence, where the biggest problem on your mind is if your parents will let you ride the pony which you fell in love with or if Santa really exists, a place which seems forever lost and whose mirror world I’m trying to recreate in the reflection of a cup of wheatgrass juice.