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  • Writer's pictureSharon Uy

#17. The Disease of Discontent


The cure for the disease of discontent is to allow yourself to get smacked squarely upside your head with the truth that you made a choice to be discontent.

This only works if you believe that everything is a choice and that you are the maker and the creator of your demise and your delight, that your existence on this planet is the canvas and you, o sentient one, are the artist. The artiste!

This does not work if you are expressly attached to your role as unsuspecting victim of life's travails and triumphs. You, a finely dressed marionette, and something outside of you, Bob Baker.

This works if the cure brings you even the tiniest bit of hope.

This does not work if it sounds like the worst news that you could possibly hear.

I realized I was suffering from the disease of discontent about halfway through its occupation in my being. As diseases go, discontent nibbled at me from within until I noticed it had devoured much of my light. A black hole grasping at the nearest stars to extinguish their glow, too, I tired of the dark at the same time that I blamed others for my lot and secretly wished them the worst. But there is never anyone or anything else to blame! This is life's lesson I learn in cycles and rhythms, for better and worse, until probably after death do us part.

All it took was a simple text, nine words to be exact, to remind me in a bigger way than ever that my thoughts and reactions were under my control. I could keep talking and complaining and pretending that I just couldn't help any of it or stop myself, or I could be the conscious observer, the witness, impartial to all of my ups and downs and highs and lows and heres and theres and everywheres and nowheres. I could choose to be an asshole, or I could stop being an asshole. I no longer wanted to be an asshole. It was as complicated and as simple as that, and to sound dramatic but to be totally real, everything has changed.

I don't know what your nine-worded text will be, but I wish for it to come to you, if that's what you choose to wish for yourself.


Above, a rendering of the vision I had in therapy as nebulously outlined below:

a process

a poem

a passing of time

a dawning

a deluge

disjointed rhymes

and it begins with

the languor of midday, a consequence of summer

the audacity of the world continuing to spin

(doesn't she know what's happened, what's happening

over here and over there

and to him and to them

all of them)

mistrust breeds

the need

to protect

that which needs no protection

because the rule of divinity is

"i am safe

and all is well


even with a gun to my head

or death at my doorstep

or a lifetime of bad habits running down the street with flashlights and face masks at the height of the night

discontent features only itself in the movie of the mind


it's been

a few weeks since

i decided

or it was decided for me

to drop

the word from my soul's dictionary

it showed up in many ways

over many days


a glance in the mirror

an unkind word

all words

passing through none of these three gates--

is it kind?

is it true?

is it necessary?

until the one time.

and poof!

like that,

it expired.

free of discontent

all windows opened to welcome the common cold,

an easy fix

it doesn't have to be good

this doesn't have to be good

because it's an exercise for life and because

beauty is in the eye of the beholder

(another rule of the divine)

i don't have to be a good


to you

if it means i'm not being a good friend

to me

(another lesson for another rhyme)

it's not goodbye

it's i'll love you

from over here

where only real love is real

and all of my thoughts can pass through the three gates

inner peace never speaks

everything else is noise


as always, thank you for sharing your time, your space, and your words, too--

<3 brookie

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