Perhaps I am wrong, all along. For being too easily contented. Contented to watch the sky from the ground. Contented to know I could have flown away amidst ethereal clouds. Contented to know there is something called love; yet never really tasting it. Contented to see myself, as myself, never beyond myself. What are dreams then, if they are not extensions of myself in beautiful futures? How does one run faster, if the finish line is not in your mind?
And this could only be foolish contentment.