When the dawn waves to an old sunset

Reading the classics, my spirit shines like a mischevious sunray bent on playfulness and no more the thoughtful, silent lantern, meditative in its corner.
Especially that in Manzoni's descriptions of the Italian countryside, of plains & valleys and lovers' mixed-up fortunes, I cannot collect enough of the magic...refuse to wait patiently for the next word but instead, devour old-fashioned sing-song lines like a wolf with excitement for its supper.
The discovery of American writers too, proves an infant celebration. Think Capote & Wharton.
How did this happen?
From my winding destiny of copywriting in a busy advertising office, of fashion journalism and coffee-morning interviews, of travel and safaris, that I in seeking my perfect bliss, have gone back to reclaiming the heart of a pensive childhood.
That I would sit in the quiet with my words, resting on thoughts of old-century paintings, Garfunkel songs, drawn curtains in low afternoon moods and the rain beating furiously on the window-pane.
That in seeking my new future, my spirit insists on visiting once more, an old acquaintance of a sunset that waits with cake and tea. A different one that spelt a happy time.
I return home at nightfall, flushed and dragging my sackful of stars.
When I next run to the lights, I expect to stop at an odd moment remembering old Dutch pictures or humming lyrics to The Dangling Conversation.
Through the classics, I may have opened one door to an inner fulfillment.