our continuous agitation reveals a low-level dissatisfaction that never entirely ceases except for a few peak moments here and there. we are restless with this scent of something better close by, but out of reach. it's like a subnormal fever. not worrisome enough to see a doctor, but not quite right either. we remain convinced that the perfect temperature or perfect partner, or job, is just around the corner, or over the fence; we imagine that our compulsions will weaken; we will outgrow our immature cravings, some new friendship or job will rescue us from crippling self-hatred, or loneliness, or from feeling that we are always making mistakes. illogically, these fantasies of change for the good persists-even for decades-while often few of them, or none, ever come to fruition. but the orientation of our fantasies and desires stays with contentment, and away from dissatisfaction.


IN LOVE WITH THE WORLD