One thing I've always seen and also heard from other people is that the most productive, "successful" people are the ones who chase their dreams every single day. I don't know if that makes them the "happiest" people, but I don't believe in happiness. I quote from an old poem:

"I believe that happiness
is a children's fairy tale,
a delusion for the ones who think
there's nothing left to gain."

Yeah, yeah, fatalistic, I know. Whatever. Continuing on: I've spent the last 4 or 5 years trying to simplify my life, be content with what Andy and I have, undo my previous workaholic tendancies, get rid of unnecessary possesions, etc. I look at people who spend their lives running from one obligation to another, never stopping to enjoy what they have at any given moment, and I feel pity and maybe even a little contempt.

Hey, I never said that's the way I SHOULD feel, I'm just being honest, OK?

I have my job, but I deeply resent the times when it forces itself into my non-work life. I have my martial arts, which I attend regularly, but I do not practice at home or display any other signs of passionate discipleship. I read, but it is strictly recreational and usually it would be a stretch to consider my choice of material edifying in any tangible way. (note: NOT intended to devalue recreational reading. too much of anything can be detrimental.)

The worst part of all: I am content. I like having my days off, doing the dishes, the laundry, the shopping and coming home to watch Andy play video games. I have no burning desire to do...anything. When I have free time, I like to curl up on the bed and read. I have displayed the ability to do that for days on end. From whence comes this lassitude? Is this some measure of the simplicity that I had set on high?

Where are the dreams, the goals that would make me so admirable to other people? How will I achieve greatness if I can't decide what I want to be great at? I knew once, but I gave it up for love. In doing so, I avoided what most assured me would be a lifelong commitment to misery. I thought I could come up with something different, or maybe just let it all go.

I don't know why I feel guilty about being so lethargic and "lazy." Maybe it's because I was raised to be diligently productive, or because I'm depressed. Perhaps I'm jealous of the people that I sneer at, who run around like crazy folk, never having to stop and feel and think and wonder.

Maybe it's because I don't feel that I have any more control than the busy soccer-mom robot-people; I can't get myself to DO anything, and they can't get themselves to STOP doing things. Is there any difference?

Yes, because I still feel that I have the luxury of moving through life more slowly than some; stopping to enjoy the taste of a great cup of chai tea, or the beaty of a wild mustard plant (weed) while stopped at a red light. Pausing to understand the enormous privilege that I have living in a place where I get to eat anything I want, have my own car, obtain any level of education I want, worry about stupid shit like this instead of thinking about where my next meal is coming from or whether someone will kill me tomorrow.

All in all, it is a wonderful life. I just have to wonder if there's more out there that I am giving up in the interest of avoiding insecurity, discomfort, and loss. As I wrote when I was 17, I consider happiness "a delusion for the ones who think there's nothing left to gain." Do I really think there's nothing more out there? Am I, dare I say it, happy?