Magical Children's Tongues

Children come out with some of the most wonderful and creative ideas, whether it be cute observations or making up unique names for things. It figures too because I believe the imagination is most fertile from between the age of 6 to 13 (give or take a few years on either side). It is as if they are continuing to reshape the world to their own tastes or preferences.
I had some strange words which I used to call things growing up myself; shoes were 'Ees' to me, while bridges I christened 'Daleks'. I also used to look upon the giant electricity pylons, reaching across the lands, like they were some kind of invading alien force, intent on keeping us prisoners.
Quite frightening were a few of my thoughts, in keeping with my morbid fascinations of today. But of course I wasn't alone, nearly every child looks at things in wonder (or with fear if the objects are particularly large). And children are the best kind of storytellers, both honest and imaginative. If we were able to bottle that magic juice which swills in their growing brains, we would have artists of all types, on every corner of the streets.
No alcohol or drugs are needed for the kids, they are their own little engines of creativity. Charging through the years, ignoring constraints and sensitivities of the elders, and slapping all manner of colours to the established palette.
Children are wonderful wordsmiths (a gift I was grateful to keep for my later years) and we ought to take notice of this fact. I have never been the type who regards them as dumb, that need to be talked down to like simpletons. All that nonsensical baby talk is a ridiculous reflection on how stunted human beings can really be. Some of us can never seem to grasp that children are very much at the sharp end of ideas or thoughts, and way beyond the level that parents insist on placing them on.
Its a tragic proof that as we get older, our minds get weaker and it is adults and not their children which ought to be talked S.L.O.W.L.Y to. Our children are way ahead of us in the scheme of creativity.
I believe as we age and our blood gets thinner (or more clotted) we lose the seed to wonder, we forget both the magical and the mysterious. Scenes of fantasy which stir the very young, become dead to grown ups because of the chains of reality that weigh most of us down in the mud of barren wastes. No unicorns graze on this land, and the feathers which we once used to think would bring us the power of flight are now tarred with the grease of heavy living, and stuck to our ribs. More cage than wing now as the years roll onward, turning us ever grey.
We should resist in babbling rubbish to children, trying to dull their beautiful ideas. Life will do this only too quickly, so we ought revel in the marvellous oceans of imagination provided by our young 'uns before the cruel shillelagh of years beat the magic from their gentle frames.