Returns are an emptiness like hunger in your gut, like a space was carved into you insides by sparkling confetti only to be cleared out and left like a great balloon of longing. Monday mornings look bleak in comparison, the so called real world like a wet blanket on your spirit. Along the river, I listen to a musician in his youth, dreams of rockstar lifestyles in his eyes, and the innocent optimism is a sweet reminder.
There is magic to be had in this life. You have piles of it in your rear view mirror, you forget sometimes but they already amount to mountains.
There’s no reason to expect any less from the years ahead.
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