Even now, success is an accident; neither by sheer force of will nor by talent nor imagination and it seems that where there is a will, there is but disappointment and faded dreams and falling short of expectations, even if they be self-inflicted.
In fleeing mediocrity, has something far more precious been left behind? In seeking contentment, has the one thing that can provide peace been overlooked? In pursuing grandeur, have eternal riches been abandoned, covered in dust?
Have I set my gaze too rigidly that I have forgotten that when I lose my first love, nothing else matters, even if I strive to shape perfection through flawed lenses?