Comfort

I want to do so many things, and then I just don't. I'm not scared. The things I want to do are things I've done before, things that make me feel good. I want to draw, I want to write about memories and stories, and I want to read. I've come to the realization that the reason I don't is because of comfort, and it's been the saddest realization I've had in a while. Fear is much more beautiful. There's reason behind the emotion, often merely psychological, followed by an internal struggle to find a personal treasure. I love overcoming a fear, having something to show for it even if just for myself.

Now, comfort is just this sluggish thing where good becomes good enough and there's nothing else to it. I know what's good enough, what's accepted, and what some people want, and I've just left it at that without any true exploration for months now. I just got back to exploring, and I want to explore some more. I want to draw things I fear I'll mess up, I want to write what my fingers feel like instead of what my brain dictates, and I want to read and get my head so into the words that they become the bright images I would love so dearly a decade or so ago when last I truly read.

I'm not ready for comfort yet.