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The world is calm and ordinary,
most times,
lighting within me a familiar fire of indignation
that is bored and tired,
dying, maybe as I begin
to accept reality
- I think this only when there seems to be no hope
for brilliant kaleidoscopes
of brighter colour
and sweeter, sharper smell,
and more of that real laughter
that's strangely hard to find between us

And then I'm hit occasionally with the need to deny
that this is it -
colour will always be dusty
and nature can be nothing more than itself
and I can be nothing more than myself
who likes to dream of
appreciating every moment now
rather than later -
and I drag in air through my nostrils quickly
and I open eyes and ears very wide,
but am disappointed
because life is ironically not so vivid as I remember

In retrospect, under-appreciation
of every past moment
is my greatest,
most hidden regret,
even hidden to myself sometimes,
and I can't help but wonder whether life,
the world and all its splendors, and atrocities,
will ever dazzle or horrify me again