It sounds just like a song...

The knowledge that I have left with little intent to return had come over me in tiny droplets of realisation spread over the hours that we drove home. And each droplet of comprehension brought its own small measure of summertime sadness. Somehow I had managed to experience more in a week than I had the previous six months combined, and I couldn't understand how I wasn't overwhelmed - not in the slightest, not at all. I've always craved experience, but now I am starting to worry that I am addicted to it. Perhaps my rut wasn't connected to finding my own fate to follow, but the sincerity with which I flung myself towards it. It had taken me years to accept that the lack of fulfilment in my life was a deliberate finality, a curse I have inflicted upon myself in order to never become complacent - a soul left dismembered, forever waiting for its rebirth.