What is comfort?
I do not speak of comfort.
I am not well versed in the language of death.
I am alive-living.
More than a shell, very well beyond a shell.
Comfort reeks to me.
I can smell it a mile away.
I see you dragging your bones along like you don’t have a life to live any more.
I see you letting your body be a tomb.
I know I cannot do this. I can never ever do this.
I can revolt.
I can do what I can to touch the heavens, even if it means forever walking on my tip-toes.
I can keep my own universe, my own mountains, and plains, and rivers, and valleys.
I can run without interruption, escape the soul-crushers, and ascend.