Half of a hole.

Deep inside myself I look for the source of this discontentment but I find nothing there. It's an empty cavern, the only upside to which is its potential to be filled with happiness. And then I ask myself how? How do I pretend such a gaping hole exists only for me to fill it with meaning when I know that the reason it is there in the first place is due to past trauma? It's a scary place inside, and cleaning that old wound means remembering feelings that have long since cauterized. A heart transplant can't occur without making some incisions.