Sometimes it is enough. Sometimes — rare times, I find — you have done all that is required to meet the challenge, and rise as if the victor of some contest of life. Often that is not sufficient to quiet us, however, to those who drink of such sweetness; often, one merely moves on, with barely an acknowledgement of what has transpired, to whatever is next in an endless supply of happenings to deal with. I think maybe it is that it is such a rare taste, it is a flavor we do not know how to react to, and we rather go on, back to the gristle of effort — a taste that we know how to swallow. Many of us simply do not know what to do when we win. Perhaps, myself, I will be more on the lookout for such times: when suddenly, that pang of desire one had clung to for so long no longer cries out. When your head is suddenly clear of a great weight looming overhead. And nobody is yelling at you anymore to hurry up. I think I shall go out past midnight on such a night, and sip wine underneath the stars: stars who will wink at me, as if they knew I could do it, all along.
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