Contentment in incompleteness.
I enjoy wandering in philosophical pursuits and presumed to have realised the truth, yet there is contentment in that incompleteness.
I enjoy exploring my inner self butchered by expensive desires, yet there is contentment in that incompleteness.
I enjoy being silent and not able to crow about something, yet there is contentment in that incompleteness.
I enjoy being unable to find answers sometimes, yet there is contentment in that incompleteness.
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