Or maybe i’m looking in the wrong places to be excited, still. What do you say to the person who fears the absence of life in their life? Shakespeare gladly called life a stage and all us it’s players, but failed to mention whether the director ever knew the end. Whether he was excited or even at all interested. I guess i just hate this idea that i’ve out thought many things around me. Where is the mystery? The regret? The rage? The lingering to see what happens next? Isn’t that supposed to be part of life? Or is the time in my life forever going to feel like bits of fruit suspended in jello?