When I go to bed, about to say my prayer that often had been forgotten, I find myself asking if I am happy. Not for that night or that day or that moment, but in everything that had been happened and that might happen to me and to the people whom I share my small world with. Of all the things that did happen, the ones that would be remembered best are those that hurt me in some way. They would drive me like a record playing scenes that leave me worse than broken over and over until I could no longer snap out of being broken. By then, I would have forgotten my prayer and everything but the scenes.