"You seem content," he wrote.
I replied that yes, I've managed to find a measure of peace.
I wanted to scream, "NO!! I'm nowhere near content!"
But of course I couldn't do that. I couldn't tell him that I had only felt truly content for two brief moments in my life, both in his presence. I couldn't tell him that I was certain that even that sense of contentment would have proven a mirage if given enough time.
And I couldn't tell him that I realized a long time ago that I would most likely never be content, although I still struggle to accept that realization.
I don't suppose this constant sense of being discontent, of being unfulfilled, is entirely a bad thing. I often believe it is that incessant search for contentment that keeps me pushing, keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.
Of course it's also what keeps me awake in the middle of the night.