narrate this: I used to feel everything so intensely. The smallest things could light me up — a song, a thought, a late-night idea that felt bigger than the world. I had this quiet fire in me. This constant pull toward something more. I didn’t even know what it was… I just knew I cared. I cared deeply. I would get lost in my own excitement. Stay up too late imagining futures that felt limitless. Start things just because they made my heart race. I didn’t question it. I didn’t measure it. I just let myself burn. And then life happened. Not in a dramatic way. Not all at once. Just slowly. Days folded into each other. Time moved faster. Energy shifted. The fire didn’t disappear — it just softened. The things that once felt urgent started feeling distant. The spark became quieter. Calmer. One day I realized I don’t glow the way I used to. But maybe that’s what growing is. Maybe the flame doesn’t die — it just learns how to survive the wind. And maybe, somewhere underneath it all… it’s still there.