Every year of my life has been one of exploration, and the last one was no exception.  On one hand, we live by an artificial concept of time, a calendar which is more often than not defied by reality that we rely upon to determine the exact moment of some kind of divine chance for a new beginning.  On the other hand, there is something to be said for surviving so many winters, and of course the chronological meaning of time is real, even if nothing more than a countdown to our demise. But psychologically, time is an illusion.; harkening the past to herald the future is a distraction from the present, which is the only place in which transformation can occur.