Where are the Wild Things?

I remember identifying so much with little Max in Maurice Sendak's 1964 book - only difference was that I was a shy and reserved and polite young boy. But inside, I wanted, nay yearned, to become that cock-sure world-wise attitudinal tough guy who would strut about in an over-the-top demanding and self-deserved demeaning way. But it just never materialized. I stayed reserved and respectful. Was it right that I remained so utterly put-together? Was it a good thing that I retained appropriately unchildlike behavior? Or was I somehow stunted by not allowing myself to lash-out, break-out, act-out and go on my imagined rampage with my inner Wild Things? I sometimes wonder, these decades later, if indeed that inborn instinct to selfish hedonism is gone, or if it simply lays in wait...