Want

I want for nothing.

A phrase often misunderstood--mistaken to be a good thing. It is reserved for the wealthy and content, for they are the only with the luxury for such a phrase.

I am not wealthy and I am not content. Perhaps, in large part, this is because I truly want for nothing.

Not fame. Not fortune. Not even love.

A small part of me feels envy for those with drive and passion. They reach out steadfast for their dreams. They drag them inward, toward them.

I have no dreams. I want for nothing.

And so, I stand within the world with all it's wonders just beyond my grasp.

I never feel the urge to reach.

I let them remain beyond me.

There is a certain hollowness to realizing one's own insignificance. I would so very much like to one day speak to my creator. There's a question that lingers on the edge of my mind that I'd very much like to ask them:

What is the reason for my existence?

It is a question I would never speak out loud, for it would be misunderstood. They'd call me suicidal, which I am not. I do not wish to die. Just as I do not wish to live. I merely exist, an empty vessel ambling through this world.