Comfort

Comfort?

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.

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