Drifting Magic in anticlimatic

My connection to things great and mystically lovely continues to deteriorate. I wonder if it is in direct proportion to the amount of responsibility and goals I have accrued in my life at this point as a necessary step in maturing into a fully functional adult in this tough world in which we live.

I used to read or view contemporary works of art- music, poetry, film, stories- and feel overwhelmed by the transcendent and intricate and wholly incorporated nature of the universe, and my place within it, though now I do not. I read or view things, and if something genuinely artistic and connective is there- which feels more and more rare- it doesn’t touch me the same way. It’s....colder. Sad. Like it’s drifting away slowly in space, growing smaller in importance. Less meaningful overall, not just distant, not just melancholy.

I’m nearly to the point where I no longer care. I don’t remember exactly why it gave me such pleasure, only that it did. This alleviates a certain kind of stress and longing, replaced by something not necessarily better. Not necessarily worse.