Telling yourself you can't. It's not like you, long past the sentiment of freedom and irresponsibility. Sitting in the monochrome routine. The highest peaks and lowest abysses of emotion already exhausted in forgotten experiences. The cage of the city.
But really, you understand there's so much more.
Reach out to catch a raindrop, sit back to watch the clouds writhe in the azure sky. Leave the concrete. Run barefoot on the stone path, skimming fluidly through the dappled sunlight, under the breathing forest canopy. Hear the calls of decorated avian singers, feel the caress of chill air breezing past your arms. Dance in solitude beneath the crescent of a waning moon; an unending spiral of steps to the tempo of whirling music. Rest in the damp grass as the dome of the heavens turns in the infinite ebony, speckled with apertures of stellar luminescence. Trace the waltz of the wandering planets among the immutable constellations. Stand on the precipice above the temperamental sea, the beat of the waves drowning out the call of the gulls.
Remember the majesty of nature, the intricacy of creation, the vitality of the primeval. Realise that you are small, and something, or Someone, out there is greater than the whole world of experience we presume to have exhausted.
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