While the persistent state of being serene can encompass contentment, that it might even be presumed in the understanding of the word, the latter is a much more slippery thing than the former. So much so that I struggle calling it a state of being even though I am pretty sure it’s not an emotion.
There is a reason we are attracted to the various things we are attracted to, and it’s not always as basic as food, shelter, or the proliferation of our genes. There are almost 50000-year-old cave paintings in Spain and Indonesia, arguably done by someone as a hobby in his off-time.
For most of my life, I identified as a writer. When I was younger it was all about fiction and even then mostly bad, formulaic genre fiction that I had a whole lot of fun writing. I worked very diligently and established strong routines around it that adapted to whatever else - work, relationships, geographic location - happened to change.
I do know that kindness is often equated to weakness, but that as well is a fence built by experience and sway from those that have come before us who’ve built one themselves. It is in fact a primitive muscular strength, one pillar of many holding up the foundations of the homes we continually build for ourselves throughout our lives.
In a chat with a friend prior to starting yesterday's piece, bouncing some ideas off of each other and digging a wee bit deeper into others, I had said I could write an entire book on just the nature of hate. She said, “What a great idea!” and I told her to get fecked.