I am tired as I write sitting on the second level of the Caltrain, looking out the misty window into the San Francisco rain after work. Ah, I am tired. Not in the disgruntled way, the annoyed way or even the apathetic one. I am tired in the content way, more mentally than physically. Tired on the inside from the gentle fatigue that doesn’t leave you spent or empty or dry. It encompasses slowly, like the nurturing nanny, allaying fears of stagnation or laziness. It hushes all inner voices, murmuring a job well done, a relaxing moment well deserved, a life worth living. You yawn as if to channel her whispers into your core. Your eyes weigh heavily in response to her soft stroking. And you thank her with your steady breathing—the eternal symbol of life.