The One Contentless

There was a man who had lived a while; he had struggled within himself, battled his own personal demons, or perhaps imaginary dragons, or simply dealt and coped with the internal inquietudes: those simple concerns or doubts or fears as so many others have; he was doing all right in the material and social and spiritual senses. He had overcome others and other things, temptations and vexations.

He had a lovely wife, fine young children and people that surrounded him and loved him. He had pretty good job security, a really good community and nation that surrounded him and supported him, for the most part. He had to do his part for them to do theirs. Like anything.

There were a few itches that he could not scratch, however, perhaps like so many others. He was bothered by some big things, and some small things, and he was always yearning for a few things beyond his reach. Some of those things he did not see himself or others achieving in this life.

He had faith in the beyond, but he was not sure about contentment of all those wishes in this life.

 

His God, like the God of all the others, would eventually make things right.

 

So this contentless one would hold on and dream and think of the contments that were already his.

And he would write of such worries in places like this.