Here you stand, in your late twenties, thinking about life. What have you really achieved?

You scoff at the word “achieve.” You’ve seen all those people out there running after something they think is happiness. There’s always that one thing missing in their lives, and then there’s the next one. There’s always a tomorrow, too. Glassy eyes and eager fingers, they all run to grasp that elusive, shiny something. Their fingers eventually wither, grasping at things left behind in this physical realm. Grasping at wisps of nothingness.

No, you are different, or so you think. Life, for you, has no inherent meaning. You have figured it all out. You won’t run after what society wants you to. So, what do you decide to run after? Being. Existing. Not chasing elusive things in this surprisingly perishable body.

So, you work just enough to have a comfortable life, enough to just be. Enough so that people leave you alone, and enough to blend into the fabric of society. Not a gold, embroidered thread that stands out, but nonetheless, a thread that contributes to holding the piece together. Just enough to disappear in plain sight.

You make life mean working reasonable hours in a ruthlessly competitive world. Wander around, watch the clouds, breathe in the cool, fresh air, hear the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes. Somewhere, your soft and warm comforter waits for you. Taste the rich flavor of wine. Love, and let love go.

Yet here you are, discontent. Staring at yourself, after seemingly “figuring it all out.” You notice a foreign feeling creeping within you. You feel unhappy. Why?

You splash cold water on your face. The mirror reflects signs of aging you never saw before. Hunched shoulders, seemingly carrying burdens buried in the folds of your mind. You see the disappearing spark in your eyes.

An echo rings out in your mind. Your voice hungrily purrs: Let me show you how eternal contentment looks. There’s not much time left. You have wasted your time here.

An unfamiliar flash in your eyes lures you towards a material world. You know it will all eventually end in nothingness, but you still want to follow this voice to the end of the world. Convinced that something is missing, you let this faceless voice in.

Hypnotized, your feet start toward a different world. Everything in this new world feels yours to take.

Years later, as though snapping puzzle pieces into place, you wake up. You realize it isn’t your mirror anymore that you are peering into. And this isn’t your home. All you can see around this house are the shadows of the materials and titles you collected.

A formidable force was in control. Leaving your body, it now searches for a younger host.

And yet again, here you stand, withered and empty. The ruthless pursuit of happiness led you nowhere. You frantically grasp at your dwindling consciousness, now a wisp of nothingness.

But time is at its end for you.

A thread rips out. No one takes notice.

P.S. wrote this to reflect my ever discontent state of mind. So many things to do, so many possibilities. Which choice leads to contentment? Probably none.