My resolution to enjoy life more only lasted twelve hours. I haven't resolved to enjoy life less, I've simply reverted to my default stance of benign fractiousness. What I want is simplicity and a kind of grace, the very qualities I treasure, resent, and deeply mistrust in others. I want to be easy, easy like Sunday morning. Being right ultimately doesn't do you any good, really. That neoplasm doesn't care if you're right or wrong, neither does that plunging funicular carriage. Being happy, that's not a worthwhile goal either because of its smarmy pastel vagueness. Happiness is a lazy umbrella term covering a number of states of mind, some of which are at least partly controllable and some not, but it's the ones that aren't controllable which naturally you will obsess over. No, being comfortable, that's something to aspire to. Comfort is understandable, if not precisely describable. It's occasionally even attainable, and its rewards are immediately satisfying and obvious. "All the comforts of home." The difficulty of attaining all the comforts of home elsewhere is why everyone stays home all the time, usually you can't pry them away with a crowbar. Of course to acquire all the comforts of home you first need a home, which is not the same thing has merely having a place to live. Since to attain the highest form of comfort you need a home, that should become the important goal, the achievement from which true comfort arises. So if someone asked me for advice on how to live a fulfilling life (which nobody has and nobody with any sense would) I'd say "find a home, then stay there."