I’ve noticed that as my days go on.
I find that lust for life lacking.
Where once, abundant in every bound of my step,
a slow, gentle rocking wracks the stability of my world view.
Perhaps it is age, but I doubt that,
for as I’ve aged I’ve begun to notice the beauty in hidden corners,
the tenderness of the everyday.
But to me it feels lacking.
It feels as though the love for life that once met every moment of my day is now collapsed.
And to take the meaning of things seems a far harder thing to do. The rules, the subtext of this very world overlays and twists the nature of the very nature that they once bore.
But perhaps I am the thing that lacks this special thing to make life abundant.
Perhaps I am the problem.
I have not seen, a sight worth seeing that I have not seen before in days without end. I hold the ones I care for closely but my mind it does not end.
And to keep this spark, this spark of a dying ember which once held my heart.
I feel all things have met there end.
Repeating each and every task over and over again.