The problem with being curious is contentment is the thing you never seem to discover.
The problem with choosing what to do with your life is that you have to choose many more things you will not do.
All those doors, softly shut. All those days, creeping away from a hundred things to fog up the glass on lives behind closed doors. Watching moments you don't have. Voyeur on might-have-been. And then the walk of shame back, and back, and back to your own door, left ajar for you. The sounds and scents like breadcrumbs leading you home.
Sometimes someone fogs up the glass on your door.
"You have your hands full!"
"I could never do what you do."
"I only have this much to handle and I'm struggling, I can't imagine what it must be like for you."
You sigh, you count up the blessings again, one...two...three...four...
And once they've piled up into a mountain at your feet, you sneak away to peer in at the other lives that are full, to imagine what it must be like.