Satisfied

Finally, in my forties,
not only am I able to
accept myself as I am;
I’m also completely
happy being me.
Attending this realisation
is a terrible question:
could contentment
be my mortal enemy?
A passionate advocate
of change,
could it actually be
that from here on in
this impulse has
lost its impetus,
leaving only stagnation?

Satisfied with my habits,
no longer categorized
into a meaningless duality
of “good” and “bad”:
writing, resting,
working, shirking,
drinking, thinking,
all heartily appreciated.
How then shall I grow?
How then shall I live?
Perhaps the answer
is in the question.
Already I carry
the seed of discontent,
even at my own
contentedness.

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