Sometimes What You Miss The Most Is

I Am Every Age, Up To My Own.

One Withers, Another Grows.

Suddenly, Details Seemed Extremely Important. Details Were Something To Grab On To, A Way To Insert Myself Into The Story.

There Was Always A Quest For More Minutes, More Hours, Faster Progress To Accomplish More In Each Day. The Simple Joy Of Living Between Summers Was Gone.

Much Of What We Called "depression" Was Really Dissatisfaction, A Result Of Setting A Bar Impossibly High Or Expecting Treasures We Weren't Willing To Work For.