Whatever happened to the joy of life, to living for the pure thrill of it? To childhood visions on August twilights , endless tramping from town to town and city to city on a desperate quest for eternal meaning.

They were beautiful, weren't they? Majestic and grand and truer than truth itself. And the world went after them ruthlessly, didn't it? Parents, teachers, friends , everyone had a reason why the dreams wouldn't work and had to be killed. There was a right way all laid out and all you had to do was follow it and not ask any questions and you'd be OK.

But it wasn't that easy. Because the dreams never really died entirely; there's still a spark of something in there somewhere. And as long as it's there, there isn't just one right way for everyone. How could we even imagine there is , with so many mystical, wondrous paths waiting to carry us along in our journeys , how could we even imagine that only one is worth taking?

It's ridiculous, and we know it, but it's so hard to take the chance and find our own road that we helplessly cling to the only way we know. And sometimes it's OK. But then there'll be nights like tonight when spring's just breaking through, and the air has that cool, crisp magic of eternity and promise. When you know that life was meant to be something else entirely , something open and free and soaring beyond the clouds.

And you want to scream and cry and break things, that the world isn't always like this, that the roads have all been closed in the name of reality and the magic is only a vanishing scent on the wind. But there's a way to get it back, there has to be. And it's up to us to find it. n