When you were five, what did you want to be when you grew up?

When I was five, the concept of growing up felt like a distant myth. I was convinced I’d stay young forever, trapped in a blissful bubble of endless possibility. Life back then was pure, unadulterated fun. School? was a pain. But the real teachers were the comics stacked by my bedside, their colorful pages unlocking the mysteries of the world.

The Phantom’s jungle adventures fueled my dreams. Drawn by the legendary Lee Falk, his tales of masked heroism had me flexing my scrawny arms, imagining muscles that could crush villains into submission. I’d patrol my backyard, picturing myself as the Ghost Who Walks, ready to restore justice with a single punch. Then there was Mandrake the Magiciananother Falk masterpiece. His hypnotic gestures and suave cape promised a future where I’d wield magic to outsmart chaos, bending reality with a flick of my wrist.

And oh, those rare Flash Gordon comics! They planted wild seeds in my mindvisions of rocketing off to Mars, battling tyrants among the stars. Even now, decades later, I haven’t entirely ruled out that cosmic escape.

Life sparkles brightest when you’re young, when every page you turn feels like a blueprint for the hero you’re destined to become.