Little Pleasures vs. Great Fulfillment

I have always pondered the idea of fulfillment for human beings.  On one hand we all have different ideas of what it means to be fulfilled, but at the same time I feel like it is a smorgasbord of different things rather than one main goal.  I somehow cannot believe that the lady who has 5 kids but never had a career is completely 100% fulfilled, but that’s me. There is a chance she may be.  Is it enough that she feels fulfilled from raising her 5 children, either represses the dream of career fulfillment aside from child rearing, or does she consider her work enough?  I probably don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.  In fact I know I don’t know what the hell I’m saying because I’m dead tired, bit hallucinatory and dizzy. Ahem…anyway though. Getting back to my weak analysis of God knows what it is I wanted to address.  Oh yeah.  I guess fulfillment is the ability to apply your intellect and values together in a way that gives you a sense of pride and confidence and goal-meeting.  For someone with clinical depression however, the glow of “happiness” begotten from a triumphant feat, is very short-lived. It is not permanent for “normal” people either, but I think that the idea does linger more.  For us it is a joke.  I “accomplish” something (whatever the fuck that means as I never think I accomplish shit) and I just go right back to wondering whether I will be fulfilled tomorrow or not. 

Small pleasures however, the trivialities in the daily swing of life, keep me from beer bonging lighter fluid.  The idea of a beautiful reading chair that is arriving on Saturday is keeping me very happy at the moment.  The idea of my new red microwave is also fun.  I also love the time between the subway and the cafe where I am not eager to go to work, but very eager to get my coffee (and sometimes on Fridays a fatty pastry!!).  And of course, to be the cheesiest idiot alive, I simply adore my friends (my family is on the top, but that’s just too obvious).  I have some of the loveliest girlfriends around.  I don’t have loads of girfriends, only about a handful, but they are MORE than enough because of their spirit and love for me.  And I laugh at them because they are freaking hilarious, and they in turn ALSO laugh at me, so it’s like double fun everytime.  So, somehow, even within my terminal depressive brain, I am able to ignore the fact that I am a failure with no future who could have been a more successful artist and probably happier in the great sense. 

Ok, I can’t really ignore it. It haunts me and the need for that kind of fulfillment makes me weep with regret and frustration.  But in the meantime, I can count on coffees and furniture and books and friends to let me at least allow me to ignore that vague idea of needing great fulfillment.

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