There are days and moments when I am certain that I will never be content. I look around me and I’m convinced that literally everyone in the world has it better than me. A better job. A better relationship. They have a better home. A better nose. Better eating habits. Better hobbies. Even better flaws. Their flaws are infinitely better than mine…
When I step back, it becomes increasingly clear that I am unquestionably certifiable. My brain lives inside a movie script, making everyone else’s lives into some endless romantic tale that always has a happy ending while I am left behind…living ordinary.
This is crazy. I know this. I know this because my life is exciting and interesting and full of art and love and passion. I know this because my life is good. Even if there are days that are boring. Even if there are days that are not so good. I know this because all of those other people that I’m looking at making up stories about…they’re making up stories too. They’re having their own crazy moments, their own sagas, their own wishing they could be or do or have something else.
So when will I learn? When will I know that life is full of moments of perfect content and wrought with times of utter discontent? When will I stop the what ifs and the look at hers and the why can’t I’s? When will I sit in where I am and have some semblance of faith that it all will be OK, that it is OK?
But then I become acutely aware that part of what gives me drive and desire and lights a fire under my ass IS the discontent (and mine does not just occur in winter, Mr. Steinbeck). I wonder if the fact that what I have is sometimes not enough is what makes me work for better. I start to think that perhaps it’s why I’m not settling for work when what I want is a career. I believe that, in certain situations, there is more to be had. It makes me grow and go inward and strive. And I wouldn’t want to lose that…
So I guess, as a dear friend once reminded me, the grass is simply green.
