quite bright

There is something so beautifully, profoundly tragic about a good adventure. You find yourself somewhere with someone and you are overcome with a sense of extreme euphoria--like you are the fog rolling over the lake, among the mountains, bearing witness to the end of every night and the start of each new day. You discover yourself gliding among the willowy wisps, light enough to be suspended above so much just for that rare moment of magic. Yet all the while you're as heavy as a freight train 108 cars long, and as you watch the last one disappear into the horizon and as you watch the sun extend its rays up into the infinite sky and across the eternity of land, you begin to dissipate. Like those opaque sheets, your small moment of bliss has vanished and the joy and euphoria and adventure that accompanied it have gone as well. As you settle back into the average life you're so accustomed to, you begin to fear the very complacency that trots alongside comfort. You feel the sticky residue of mundane apathy still lurking on your forearm and as you try and yank it off, more layers are revealed and with those layers come the memories and suddenly all at once you realize that the only way to avoid the inevitable drought of passion altogether is to remember that There is something so beautifully, profoundly tragic about a good adventure: An adventure isn't dependent on the "someone's" or "somewhere's" or "something's" at all; a good adventure is found solely in your heart's appreciation of an experience, and it isn't until you realize this, that wherever you are, as long as your heart is all in, there will always be potential for grand adventure.