I am never satisfied.
I want people to do/think/feel as I want (and they rarely do).
I want to have better drawings to show at an upcoming life drawing exhibit (and I don’t).
I want to know how things will turn out … but I can only know that at the very end (and I don’t want to be at the end).
I want more. More of what? More of whatever I currently have.
I want to be thinner. I want to be younger. I want to be richer. I want to be happier.
I want… I want … I want …
As a baby, I never stopped crying, or so I am told. My parents tried everything. They fed me, I cried. They hugged me, I cried. They left me alone, I cried. Even when they broke down and cried … I cried.
Does that mean I am destined to be perpetually dissatisfied? Is this some punishment for heinous crimes in a past life?
I hope not.
I hope that in the third quarter of my life, I can just learn to accept what is.