I have been discontented. I keep a fortune cookie fortune in my wallet, grimy now, as such items age badly, that says, "Discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation." I hope this is the case, because otherwise, I have been petulant and recalcitrant to no purpose. That would just be a waste of time.
Inside the discontent about one aspect of my life is a careful exhilaration about a different aspect. I am not the person I would like to be. I am not engaged by my work in the way I wish to be. But someone may love the person I am right now, unperfected, in mid-stride. I am agog at such a possibility. Bewildered and doubtful, I nevertheless dream in brighter colours.
The joy inside the discontent is hard to identify, like an iridescent butterfly as the dusk grows deeper. I have taken to recalling good moments in my life, trying to remind myself that they were all bought with work or suffering, or simple patience.
But the boomerang of self-assurance I swing into the world comes back an arrow of defeat. Perhaps I misinterpret. Right now, it feels as if everyone else is winning, everyone else has eased their demons and begun to enjoy their rewards. Meanwhile, I long to go vaulting over the obstacles that taunt me. People wave at me from the far shore. Perhaps my demons, being harder to vanquish, force me to greater lengths, greater feats to defeat them. Perhaps eventually I will emerge stronger than I would have had the battle been swift and easy. Perhaps these arrows of defeat come from many sources, and my boomerang still hasn't arrived.
Perhaps I need some success and not so much philosophy or metaphor.
I watch others philosophize, and I can see they use philosophy to shield themselves from the truth that they will never reach their goals, never succeed. It gives my own philosophy a bitter aftertaste.
In the end, the only absolute path to failure is to stop trying.
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