How sad it is when there is no more wonder to the world. For it is not the world that has suddenly emptied itself of its marvels, but the soul who has somehow exhausted its capability to be so delighted. I imagine there are some (very few, I would like to hope) who never really regain that childlike ability to be fascinated, who die cynical. But in my believing, there are more things even in our own selves than are dreamt of in our imaginings (with apologies to Shakespeare). Sometimes we give up on the world, but find the world hasn’t given up on us, and maybe a magic perturbation of events lights in a tired soul new energy. For there is always wonder to the world, even in the tired things, even when we refuse to see how it could possibly apply to me, here, now.