What defines us as a person...the things we do, the things we think, what we accomplish or what our dreams are/were?
Each person we meet, even briefly, forms our character, each event adds to the making of ourselves, each thing we think, molds the person we've become.
As the fifty-sixth year of my life approaches, I wonder, who I am. I wonder, which direction from here.
Is this the winter of discontent, of which Steinbeck and Shakespeare both wrote so eloquently?
I wonder...in the dark of the early morning.