Although I was never a daddy's girl, if there's something to be said about my relationship with my father is we are very much alike and we understand each other's artistic side. He'd tell my mom things about me that he was always able to read and I'd jump back in shock of its validity. Is it because I show my colors through or because I don't hide behind the lines? As I remembered a dear friend today, I was reminded of how much I'd go out of my way for her, she whom I lost at a very young age. She was compassionate beyond reason and she still, to this day, leaves an impression on me whenever I think of the way we should love and not deconstruct.
Don't give up on the grand finale. Sure, the excitement of "brand new" dies (this is not meant to sound dramatic), but it can coincide with other great things that surface. I relay this to my love for wine and its existence in its ever-growing community. I never bore from it. Every time I learn something new, or watch the look on a guest's face when they are trying a grape variety for the first time, or figure out the difference between day bright and starlight when blind tasting in a room with minimal natural light, or pick up slate over clay or chalk in its nose, or being able to pin point the vintage by its hue and the maturity of its flavor profile. I get off on this shit and that is why this thrill is not gone for me. It's called passion. Once you have it, you can apply it wherever you choose and so desire and that magic you crave will never die. This is truth. Make that choice to live for each moment unconditionally and don't ever look back with regret. It will only age you.