In numerous ways, the heaviness of my heart has become standard configuration; a melancholy amalgamation of sorrow and growth.
All the numerous, scattered blossoms of happiness could be argued to have come too late.
But, as I am happier living in the present, I'd like to think the timing is exactly what it should be; or, I'll prune away all that sunshine has brought to life if I find myself unable to recognize meaning upon the many petals I've pondered over snipping from their buds.
Even those of us who are most gracious sometimes relapse into the same bitter habits that held us back at our lowest moments.
If only winter could come, so I could blame all the sabotage on frost instead of my own will.
