A source of delight

One can never truly know what one craves until one tastes a tinge of the craving’s mysterious pleasure. And so when at last I had a taste of it myself, on quiet midnight, whilst leaning against the balustrade and not minding the muffled chatter from below, my heart swelled with an unfounded, undisturbed delight. Or maybe it was a redolent delight – like a joy which you’ve known before, but after having lost it, soon began to forget, and then now, suddenly springs up to break the settling mundanity of life. How dearly I crave it! And what would I not give to return to that moment of rapture – to that frame in which the world seemed to have stilled and the night acquired a form of timelessness, of blissful eternity. The dark trees could shift unceasingly, tirelessly, in the winds, the candles in the pavilion could burn for as long as the immortal stars, the sparse droplets of rain could slither again and again down the playground slide, the chatter from downstairs could trail on forever, eventually melding itself into the calm of nature; and I could always turn sideways to that wondrous source of delight.

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