I wish to give in sometimes to the little whispers of cynicism that lurk about the corner, that have always lurked about the corners of my life, but the sun is so warm. And while I stumble and lose my way for a minute or sometimes a day, I believe my inner nature will always have its way. Like a moth to a faintest glow, I am attracted to the little things, the things that often go unseen, and while the world finds joy in all that is embellished and grandiose, my inclination, like that of a plant, is to simply bend towards warmth. An hour of silence is precious, and so is a dinner, some wine, grub, the calm glow of subdued lighting, and music to go along, and both are equal in their beauty; none is better than the other. And if one of them is better, it is because I say it is, and if I do not tell myself anything, it will not be that way.
I reckon there was a moment, a smidge in the long scheme of things, a few months here and there, where I found my inner compass askew, and I could not see everything for its trueness: a whole lot of nothing, and I say this with the most humility a human being can muster. Everything is nothing. A flower is a flower, growing unbothered, and then, we look at it, and that changes everything.