For a start, they were simple things. Like the setting of the Sun at the end of the day, and rain in the middle of the night. Finishing a book never felt better, starting one is almost bliss. A couple or so would be most bewitching. And then gatherings were most exciting. For an end, monotony has overtaken. excitement has dissipated. The Sun and its conflicting partner does not matter. Neither the paperback of wooden brown. It is almost a chore to hold a pen and make legible markings over the pages. All that is left is to withdraw, if that has not already been done.
And for an end, it is pathetically miserable, or so I would have thought just a year ago.
Funny that, I no longer mind it. I wish I do.
To be still excited about things that you love, it must feel marvellous.
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