An entire economy is built on a single feeling: that you do not yet have enough. The advertisement is not really selling a product; it is selling a lack, a gap between who you are and who you would be if you owned the thing, and its whole art is to keep that gap open forever. A satisfied person is a bad customer. So we are trained, hour by hour, into a low chronic wanting that no purchase ever closes for long, the new thing thrilling for a week and then quietly joining the pile of old things that were once going to be enough.
And it does not work, which is the oldest lesson humans keep having to relearn. The wealthy are not the contented; they have simply discovered that appetite relocates to a more expensive address. Solomon, who by his own account denied himself nothing, wrote a whole weary book about the emptiness of having it all. The problem was never the amount. It was the belief that the amount was the answer, that there existed some threshold of acquiring past which the ache would finally close. There is no such threshold. That is the point of the machine.
Enough is not a quantity you finally reach. It is a relationship with the One who is himself the treasure.
Jesus says it without decoration, warning plainly against covetousness: 'a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.' And then he points the other direction entirely, toward a contentment that comes not from having more but from needing less, from a security that no longer rests on stuff. Paul, who had been both rich and hungry, called it a secret he had to learn: 'I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.' Enough turns out not to be a number at all. It is what happens when the endless upgrade loses its grip because you have found a treasure that cannot be bought, and next to it the pile finally goes quiet.