Content. Literally.

Content. Literally.

Why do we believe we deserve contentment?

Amongst everything else, my mind has decided to linger on this to the extent of a perpetual migraine residing in my temple.

Let’s rephrase.

Why do I seem to believe I deserve contentment?

I’m not talking about a limitless & bountiful state of content – just a hint of it. A tiny morsel to settle my craving. Must I wait in anticipation until the day I wake up and this nagging feeling has subdued? Or is this something I have to work at, until I reach a stage where I know what I want, and become an indomitable spirit of serenity because of it. I feel both are unlikely.

If there’s a difference between happiness and contentment, shouldn’t contentment be easier to achieve? Neither can be arrived at without incident, true, but when will my mind allow me to reach a point where I’m like, “This is OK. Cool. I’m doing enough.”

Evidently, from all these questions I must be looking for answers, most probably I’m just filling this blog with more recitals of my self-absorption and unreliable insight. I’m not happy, but I’m not unhappy. I’m in love, but I’m not doing what I love. My skin is worse than ever, but I have a lovely arse.

Maybe everything is fine and I’m just lonely.

But who knows, really. Who f*cking knows.

Caroljunk is a twenty-something asshole who writes about herself because she’s terrible at communication.
Pity her.

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