kenjisan

On being content

In the end, each life is irreducible to anything other than itself. Which is as much as to say: lives make no sense.
-Paul Auster, The Locked Room

Being content has always gotten a bad wrap. If you’re content, you’ve settled. Yes, things could be better, but why bother? Right? I’ve always thought this. I’ve always violently denied being content like it was some kind of social responsibility for me to be looking forward. But you know what? I’m pretty content right now. And you know what else? I’m happy.

I’m not sure how to explain this apparent contradiction. Maybe I’m happy that I’m able to be content. Yeah, I could be happier—maybe—if I had more money, or a better job, or a faster car. But if we’re talking relativity, then I could also be worse off, with crappier versions of those things. I don’t put a whole lot of energy into picking apart my life, into thinking about these things. I’m not really an introspective person, contrary to what many of you probably think. I like being quiet, I like observing things around me. Just not myself.

I guess I just don’t see the point. For me, anyway. Like Auster says up there, lives are so freakin’ crazy. You never know what life will bring, or where you’ll end up, or what will happen. And, whether my reasons are justified or not, I am, at my core, happy. No fooling around here. If that means I find myself content, then fuck it, I’ll be content.