A Soul in a State of Repair

Something in him had died. Not as he sat admiring the rare rays of sun streaming into his small apartment with its strange ways, but quite some time ago. It is conceivable, he thought, that he never noticed its dying breath, because he did not want to. However, his recent, exhausted lull and the subsequent development of an ability to truly appreciate a mundane moment, meant to him that his old self was returning to him.

He had clung so desperately to his passions, had tried so hard not to lose his affinity for them, had convinced himself so utterly that they mattered, that now, as he took a breath of the crisp winter air and felt complacent, he realised his passions must have left him temporarily.

A man needs passions as much as he needs a collection. Whether it is a passion for conquest, making love, or leaving a legacy, a man desires, conquers, or loves not without passion. Throughout his life, a man collects passions. So often does he develop a passion for something he did not know before, something exotic, perhaps. Yet so often too does he lose a passion, which is always a pity, for so many passions should not be lost.

Therefore, as the sun swiftly made its decent upon the horizon, he realised that what had died were the passions he held most dear. These were not the passions of trivia, but the passions that had mattered to him most. He also realised in that moment that perhaps it was not his passions that had died, but he, and that he had now come back to life as a former version of himself with an entirely new series of passions to collect.

His soul had not yet been restored, but at least it was in a state of repair.