We've let the blade of our innocence dull over time, and it's

“We’ve let the blade of our innocence dull over time, and it’s only in innocence that you find any kind of magic, any kind of courage.” — So spoke Sean Penn, a man of restless soul, whose words cut deeper than the world’s applause. His reflection is not about naïveté, but about the sacred strength that once lived in us when our hearts were still untamed — when wonder guided us more than fear. In this saying, he laments the corrosion of that purity — the slow wearing down of the blade of innocence, the keen edge of our first beliefs, our original courage to see the world not as it is, but as it could be.

Innocence, in its truest form, is not ignorance. It is the unbroken faith in the goodness of things, the instinct to believe before doubt has taken root. When we were young — in spirit, not in years — we dared without overthinking, we loved without guarding, we created without fear of judgment. That is the magic Penn speaks of: the light that shines before experience dims it. Over time, the weight of cynicism, disappointment, and self-preservation dulls this edge. We learn to protect ourselves from pain — but in doing so, we often protect ourselves from wonder too. The blade that once carved dreams now lies rusted by reason.

To live without innocence is to see the world only through the lens of caution. The weary mind says, “I have seen too much to believe again.” Yet it is belief — not knowledge — that moves mountains. Magic is born not from certainty, but from openness; not from mastery, but from awe. The ancients knew this: that the first virtue of the hero was not strength, but purity of heart. For what is courage but the ability to act before the outcome is known? Only the innocent can be truly brave, for they have not yet built the walls that keep them from trying.

Consider the story of Joan of Arc, that young shepherd girl who heard a voice and dared to trust it. To the wise men of her age, she was foolish — a child lost in visions. Yet her innocence became her power. She believed, simply and absolutely, that God had chosen her to free France. With no armor but faith, she rode into battle and turned the tide of nations. The world, in its cold reason, condemned her to flame — but history remembers her as one of the bravest souls who ever lived. Her courage was not born of knowledge, but of unbroken belief. In her, the blade of innocence was sharp and unyielding.

Courage, as Penn reminds us, does not come from experience; it comes from the heart unscarred by calculation. The soldier who has seen too many wars may hesitate; the child, believing wholly in the goodness of his cause, steps forward without fear. The world calls such souls naïve — but it is the naïve who change it. Every discovery, every revolution, every act of compassion begins with a kind of innocent defiance: the refusal to accept that things must remain as they are. Magic and courage spring from this same fountain — from hearts that still believe that something beautiful, or just, or impossible, can be done.

Yet we, grown heavy with knowledge and doubt, have let that blade grow dull. We trade wonder for irony, courage for caution, sincerity for cleverness. We laugh at innocence, forgetting that it was once the source of our strength. And so we wander, clever but joyless, safe but small. The remedy is not to forget the lessons of pain, but to remember that purity of vision is not weakness. To see the world with unclouded eyes — to marvel, to hope, to act with faith in spite of fear — is the highest form of wisdom. The soul must polish the blade anew, each day, against the stone of truth and imagination.

The lesson, then, is clear: Guard your innocence not as a child would, but as a warrior guards his sword. Let wonder live beside knowledge. Let belief walk hand in hand with experience. Do not let the hardness of the world make you hard in return. Reclaim the courage of innocence — the daring to begin, to love, to dream, to act without guarantees. For in that sacred simplicity lies all the magic that can move a weary world.

So, my listener of tomorrow, when you wake and find the day too ordinary, remember this: you were not born to be cynical. You were born to see stars where others see darkness. Sharpen your blade — through laughter, through kindness, through hope — and step once more into life’s great adventure, unafraid, unbroken, and still innocent enough to believe in the impossible.