I begin to wonder whether I was right. Whether what I meant by being content was really what contentness meant. If every day I do my work and I see my friends and I eat my food and I’m clean and looking nice and wearing clean clothes and everything works, does that mean happiness or merely good function? I wasn’t unhappy. But I wonder if I was skimming over the surface, that’s all, and to be able to say I am happy I also need to be unafraid of not being happy, to be prepared not to deny it. To accept it as part of a normal life, and not as an abnormal response that must therefore have a solution which must be found and which normally entails Doing Lots Of Sensible Things. To acknowledge the black and the bleak as well as the positive, the good, and the bland. To acknowledge the bad moods as well as the good is not bad function, it’s multidimensional, and I need to stop wrapping myself up in fear and cotton wool and Sensible Things, and embrace every angle. We are not machines. I am alive, and that has edges, and it’s all worth something.
I am considering all this. This is not to say that I have considered this, merely to say that I see now that all these are things I need to reconsider. Can you see how carefully I am trying to express all this? Whatever you may think, I am not always good with words, and if I’m still being clumsy I apologise.
