Wordsworth speaks about "The fountain light of all our days", Yeats of "The foul rag and bone shop of the heart". The stuff that forms us - what we hold on to - is it loss or freedom to let it go? If the weather is too hot where you are, I understand completely if you don't want to ponder this.
Things are actually better with the king in question for now. But in the lil world o art here, I may be working it out for awhile.