Fairy Tale Endings

I believe we desire a common ending: life without restriction.

But I'm guessing the life we desire in actuality is one without boredom, one wherein we're almost chronically engaged, where there is no tolerance to new experiences.

That's probably why fiction is so riveting, and so false.  It is at once pure movement, pure "doing" of some sort.  There are no red lights except as a pause toward something.  There are no moments of dull banality except as to point out a character flaw or an intriguing supposition that will flood out into a blossom of involvement.

But I'm being disingenuous.  Good fiction is like dipping into a greater mind than the one you inhabit, and also being able, capable, to inhabit it.  And good fairy tale endings are transitory at best.

But the point of this post was to express a simple piece of data: that we are often delusional about what makes us happy.  To wit: drinking, excess, extremes and endeavors that wreak of showing off, but rarely result in incremental upticks in sated minds, or even more than a glance or subjective bounce of placebic simplicity.