Damn the noisy, extroverted arbiters of well-being

Some of us just want to live quaint little lives, magnificently plain and of no great consequence. Is that so much to ask, to not be required to aspire to matter? Constantly I condemn myself for my lack of ambition. Is there something so wrong with being still, being simple, being satisfied? I suppose for some there is. A life without frantic going is no life at all to them. A pulse proves your aliveness, but I feel such an exquisite, subtle rhythm in the quiet places. I don't need power, don't need fame or success. I will never be cool or hip or important and that is a blessed thing. My greatest gift is my shabby sincerity. I am that I am and I fail utterly when I try otherwise. Why strive for different? A better me is a worthy aim to be sure, but life will hone me if I am open and do my best. This I must always remember, for the loud, the clamorous, the eternally dynamic who demand that I shape myself into their image are in fact unknowingly in pursuit of my own happiness.