I shocked myself today with a nasty revelation. In just a few weeks, I will, officially, be closer to 50 than 40 years old. Middle age is no longer a distant possibility I can avoid or deny, and the mirror tells a horrid truth whenever I’m foolish enough to listen. I’m now entrenched in a community no longer interested in dreams as a distinct possibility, and the spirit of exploration has become faint; dampened with the ever-present drizzle of tepid reality. Even new discoveries are tinted, if ever so slightly, with the shades of gray familiarity. Call it wisdom, call it fate, or call it desire fatigue: it’s a state that’s reached when one no longer finds acute joy in the anticipation of new experiences or items.