Most days I feel life is hard. A beginning and an end I don’t understand, toiling through endless days, drowning in noise, unable to see my road. Then I think of how fortunate I am to sleep under a roof, have food, and so much more. I think of those who don’t, and feel bad. I want to make it better, but don’t really know how. Not the way I’d like. So I write, follow my road and hope that there’s a reason for all this, that years from now, it wouldn’t have been just a silly dream. And when I look at this sky, drifting clouds, crop-covered field, my eyes mist up and I hear the voice inside: keep going, continue to believe, all will be fine, you’ll see.