I am the creature of comfort. Hiding away, seeking refuge. Afraid to commit to the moment. Too scared of letting it all go. I sit behind the curtains. Looking, observing. I form opinions on matters I don’t know about, people I don’t know about, circumstances I could do nothing about. Far from the world, hidden by a sheath that flutters with the wind.
I am the creature of comfort. Slothing, gluttonous life filled with pride and greed. That’s four of the deadly sin right there. Redemption doesn’t await me. Redemption isn’t for one without humility. Humility I have never seen. I don’t practice fictitious concepts.
I am the creature of comfort. Denial is my weapon. I deny the tumour growing inside me, I am healthy. I deny emptiness in my life, I am surrounded by chaos. I deny the silence that tries to speak about the truth, I can’t hear it over the ruckus I imagine. My life is not futile. My dreams have been fulfilled. My death won’t be a mere mention in the obituaries. My life has not been futile.
I am the creature of comfort. My bones are brittle, muscles strained. Mind numb and conscience dead. There is no high or low moral ground. Ill equipped to tackle my own demons, but life isn’t about seeking a greater truth that justifies my existence. Its comfort that’s the higher power.
I am the creature of comfort. I do not benefit anyone. I serve no purpose. My existence, wiped out, won’t affect anyone.
Photograph courtesy : David Helmore