I wonder if contentment is destined to elude me, other than fleeting little wisps of it on a warm sunny afternoon. The greener side of the fence calls persistently, and I'm continually distracted from the thing in hand by what's not.
Is this genetic, or a general human condition? Over the course of my life, I've encountered others who genuinely seem satisfied with whatever lot they've been given. Sometimes I'd tilt my head and purse my lips as I looked at them eyeball to eyeball, in a concentrated attempt to see inside their heads, to see if their professed acceptance of the status quo was genuine. It's not that they were sated, but that they sought no such thing. Or so it appeared to me. But who can really know the mind of another?
Instead I sit here looking over the fence, chewing thoughtfully on the blade of grass in my teeth and pondering what it is to be other than I am.
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