I find myself growing more and more contemplative as the years pass. I think its generally a good thing, because being in contemplation forces you to look deep within. And somehow, rattle up all those old skeletons in hidden closets (God knows, I have many, many of those). Outward, I guess, I am a picture of joy, bliss, perfect contentment, but like many... I am broken, imperfect. I used to think it was difficult to be broken. In the whispers of the late night, I would silently question the Universe, 'Why, why is it like this?' ... even while knowing very well that everybody has their own struggle, own yellow brick road journey to take. And then I would drift off to sleep, in the land where I would meet the maker in pockets of subconsciousness, usually awakening in the mornings with a sense of rejuvenation (sleep does wonders like that), ... feeling ready to overcome the day. Except the day isn't always overcome, rather... it overcomes me, with all the elements of life. We...