Being content with oneself, on closer thought, is a different thing. I am talking about a different room, here. In this room, I feel, if there is some sort of pain, it leads me to think wider about other things, not just outside this room and in another, but outside the very box, if I may say.
In the absence of all pain, I fumble and draw compromises with cheese and bread, in contoured lines.
The experiences are utterly different. Much like being in different rooms in an art gallery...one, holding up paintings of Shergil, and another, empty, only with sparse pigeon droppings on windowpanes. These contrasts can perhaps both be classified as art of one sort or the other. However, the experience one draws from them, is what is and makes a world of difference.
(Having said this, how would I explain this drawing I made, it wasn't in happier times and yet, it is only an array of coffee mugs. I've called it 'Meloncholy', for now.)