According to modern-day psychologists, the long-term memories of human beings can be potentially infinite. This is accomplished by the delicate emotional interpretations of our environments, and how we recall our fondest experiences. I too was skeptical at first, but if you spare a brief moment from your busy schedule, and recall not the information, but the emotion, you may discover you remember far more than you may have thought. For myself, it's the gentle turning of a page, the surface not quite smooth enough to go unnoticed. My left hand’s careful grasping of the leather bindings, its touch temperate yet refreshing. My back is against something comfortable and homely, I remember not what it was, only how pleasant it felt. My legs are stretched out before me, yet they feel so far away; for my attention is focused solely on the object in my hands. If I were to close my eyes and listen, I’d hear the welcoming silence of the house, with my door lazily swung open; held ajar by a pillow fallen astray. Accompanied by the forbearing blow of the swift breeze beyond the glass to my right, followed only by the chirping of spring songs. Though all these things are ideal for your perfect day, they were a mere ambiance for the art that I held. Each word sends a series of excited sparks up my arms and through my frame. For one leads to the next, and the next, and the next. They continuously string together to form a masterpiece beyond my comprehension, but not my imagination. For it has no limits, no obstacles to overcome. Every few lines I must halt, and allow myself to overthink it; for if I hadn’t it would end. My brain was hungry for the stimulation provided by a certain form of art that I had latched onto. As the minutes, to hours tick by even my constant termination of all consumption has become irrelevant. Before I even realized the time had continued to flow without me, I had reached the conclusion. There were no more pages left to cherish. Though it took some time for the euphoria to wear down; the result soon became clear. I would never again be able to devour, interpret, or even attempt to comprehend this masterpiece blindly ever again. Though other triumphs would come and go, none would ever be like the first.