Once upon a time in a land nearby, where times and tides weren't the same as they are now, there used to be the occasional town market. People from far and wide promptly arrived to check out the humble merchants' wares. It was enthusiasm and awe abound. Flying carpets and shape shifters, climbing water and ferocious animals frozen in stone. Everyone had gathered here today in large numbers, anxious to see the new object of the year. The one that would amaze and leave you star struck!
The wait drew longer. Patience grew fonder. Then as time passed, the tease got to one and all. The sly, capricious nature like that of water in a desert was getting old and weary. Magic at the market was never affordable and it was torturous to stand and stare. Crowds started to reduce and flock away, leaving the merchants at the height of dismay. Soon, the excitement, the hype died down, and as the years passed by, the visitors to the fare grew weary by the day.
Today if you take a walk down the same road, the merchants sit amongst their goods, dreaming of the days that were. The atmosphere, welcoming no doubt, lacks the spark that once drew crowds and crowds. Interaction happens only on insisting, and talk is small and dreary.
It is the change of season. It is the time to go home. It is the time to drive your sword in to the ground and walk the way you came with the white flag covering your back.
Every now and then though, you chance upon a marketplace which takes you right back to that magical land. It's a sweet symphony of beauty and sadness. It pierces your heart, but you know your life's better for it.