The excitement of wee sleepers, safely tucked into bed. I’ve not known it for decades.
Some will never know it at all.
And yet, selfishly, I mourn a feeling that I will never have again. And let the wonder of the morning, brightness and joy, pass me by in a cloud of melancholy. And let the horror of those without, those who have never and will never, glide by in my preoccupation.
Does that make me a bad person, or just a mediocre one? And which is worse?