I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. It’s more… an observation, I suppose. A quiet sorrow, maybe. I’m 76 now, or will be next month, and I've spent so many decades chasing after a certain kind of life. The one my parents, especially, dreamt for me. Corporate law. And I got it. Oh, I got it all. The big house, the art collection that was really more of an investment portfolio, the fancy cars, the whole nine yards. Every material thing you could ever want. And for so long, I convinced myself that was… happiness. Or at least, success. And it was, in its own way. I was very good at it, you see. I could dissect a contract like a surgeon, find the tiniest flaw. A real talent, people said. But I think maybe, deep down, it was just a highly developed coping mechanism. A way to feel… useful, when what I really wanted to do was paint. Or write. Something that didn't pay the bills quite so reliably, perhaps. Something that felt like breathing. And now, especially with the holidays approaching again, it just… hits differently. I remember when Christmas, or Easter, even, felt so vibrant. A real spiritual conviction, you know? The hymns would make my throat ache, the stained glass felt almost alive. A profound sense of meaning. Now, it’s just… a performance. A carefully curated social obligation. I sit there, in those beautiful old churches, and I try to feel it. I really do. I concentrate on the words, the music, the scent of the incense. But it’s like there’s a veil between me and whatever it is everyone else seems to be experiencing. A kind of emotional anhedonia, I think you’d call it. Or maybe just a profound spiritual apathy. It's not that I don't believe, exactly. It's more that I don't… feel. I go through the motions, nodding along, offering polite smiles, but inside, there's just this hollow echo. A quiet sort of terror, sometimes, that I've spent my whole life building a beautiful, elaborate cage, and now I'm too old to even try to pick the lock. It’s just… quiet. And cold.