The winter of our discontent

Shakespeare said it. Steinbeck said it. Now I'm going to say it:

It's winter and I'm discontent.

There's no rhyme or reason for it. I have everything I could possibly want.

But I have to admit it:

I'm discontent.


Because although I have everything, I'm not everything. Not everything I want to be.

I don't mean in a status sense, I mean in a personal sense.

My shortcomings pain me.

What to do?

Accept and work.

Accept and work.

Accept and work.

What else can you do?

Accept and work.

If I say it often enough, it might sink in.

Accept and work.

Stupid boy.


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