I am unimpressed by everything, these days. Perhaps I am getting old. Or is it the mark of the sinner, that ambrosia itself can no longer stimulate the palate — for I am sure that a saint, even the air he breathes in has its own specific sweetness. I know that in the past, there were times when I was simply amazed by everything; I do not know if that was necessarily better in my case, though. My problem was that I did then no longer strive to do anything better than to soak in the fabulousness of the everyday. Perhaps a certain dissatisfaction can be good for me. Everything can have a purpose, n’est-ce pas? Or it may be that there is something else I need learn, and my sense of wonder restored, like the treasure of regaining what you once took for granted, and was taken away. But for now — the poetry of it all is lost on me. So what?
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