My mutability seems boundless in aims for finding satisfaction within my world. I am as fickle as the wind, with patterns which may seem evident only after a length of time, and still such cyclical characteristics are not enough to base a prediction of where I will blow next. Sometimes the gail winds are lacking and the sail in my boat just sags, remaining stagnant, placid, tranquil, or bored. Other times, the forces create a vortex of emotions, ideas and thoughts, then the tornado whirls at torpedo speed. Each day becomes a constant struggle of harnessing this power, to create a steady pace, towards the sunset, and live life breezily. But where is my helmsman?