The older I get, the more comfortable I've become with the mystery. I used to rage inside like Ahab, out to destroy the symbols of our suffering. Not so much anymore. I still ponder and ask the unanswerable questions, such as why mankind is inflicted such unrelenting and undeserved misery and sorrow, but I don’t torture myself over it anymore. There are some things that we are not meant to figure out. We have to get over it, we have to get comfortable with ambiguity, else we’ll destroy ourselves.