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Unfortunately growing up is sometimes to lose a sense of play.
Not me, you understand. Others.
It's a general observation based on the fact that I have not heard a colleague complain of a scraped knee for some moons now.

Instead of electrical impulses dancing around the excited mind, we try to force linear corridors between effort and gain. Artificals shortcuts towards a Picasso-esque portrait of happiness.

Is it fun growing up?
We tend to think not. But it should be.
We concentrate on the dark side of growing up - aging.
We should concentrate on the lighter side - the naughty freedom that you only see in children and some devilish pensioners and that we sometimes lose in between.

Now I have reached adulthood, I see that we can speak our mind, have enough sophistication to anticipate its impact and still hopefully have enough money in our pocket to help us get behind a few of the velvet ropes where the fun could really kick off.
But still a uneasy sense of unwon maturity can persist.
If the concrete lining your corridors has not yet hardened up so much that you risk it fracturing when challenged, then why not do just that?

Pick at the cracks.
Peel back the wallpaper - tear it a bit, draw on it.
Test those walls.
And play.
Risk.
Write a sweeping novel and distil it into a paragraph.
Write an opus and summarise it to a scale.

Build and grow.
Chunk up and down.

But concentrate, destroy, distil.
Be without ruth. Purify and edit life.
Learn to kill and self-harm.
Be your own guru.
Alternate tough with fluffy; and flip between the two so no-one knows what they are going to get.
When you meet folk who think life is a box of chocolates, drop in a liquorice allsort.
Be a devil.

Challenge. Yield.
Advance. Regress.

Build blocks.
Dance.
Reblock.

Unblock.

Unlock.

And play.

To play it safe is not to play at all.