I think we're so used to editing ourselves that we don't even realize we're doing it. I want to walk wildly through the world, but I have no idea what that looks like. I want to love what I do so much that I thrill to place my feet on the earth each morning--a love so large, how can it be so difficult to identify?
I wonder if we've become so fearful or (worse?) so jaundiced that we wouldn't know contentment if it offered us a fairy crown and wings to match.
It's sad not to know one's own mind, but it's terribly tragic not to know one's own heart.