I don't know what it means to be satisfied. To feel contented.

My house is repeatedly torn down and rebuilt when I become restless with the walls. I take a sledgehammer to the hallway and lick up the plaster. Revel in the sound of glass shattering as I hurl each smiling, framed photograph to the ground. I light the curtains on fire and dig a knife into the furniture, tearing open its fluffy, white lifeblood. To end it all, I smash every mirror in the house. Laughing as I signal the bulldozer to flatten what I've built.

I dream of searching no further, of meeting my heart's deepest calling. Of finding the one I read about in books and being wise enough to recognize him when he comes. What if I am too busy rebuilding to notice? What if I'm undertaking too many renovations?

There's a reason they fence off construction zones: they're dangerous.

Perhaps lasting satisfaction is unattainable for a handful of miserable souls who torment themselves with what could be. We enjoy all the best things in life, which makes it hard to accept anything but. We juggle projects endlessly because to become static is frightening. To become static is failing.

I'm terrified that I'm playing a lifetime game of "just you wait." Of turning over leaves until there are no more trees in sight. Of severing ties when I should've strengthened them.

We are told to chase our dreams, but I wonder if I'll eventually come to regret spending my time chasing after a notion didn't exist.