Comfort - the word, the feeling - I think about it often. I fail to find it. Like the tongue goes back again and again to where the recently lost tooth was, I find myself going back to the word, the idea, the feeling, again and again.
I want to capture exactly what the opposite of comfort is, to put down, to mould and set in words. I carry it wherever I go. It does seem heavy.
Disease, discomfort, unease, weakness - they simply don't cut it. I refuse to believe that something that has coiled around me to the point of suffocation could be summed up in one small word. That something that made my God disappear, become distant, unresponsive, cold could amount to so little. That something that intrudes my every waking hour could take up only this miniscule a space.
It is heavy to carry. It sits right at my prefrontal cortex. It fogs all my senses. I barely feel human.
It feels like the life-flow ebbing, a wave that retreated before it could reach me. Like being too tired to fall asleep. Like days merging into one. Like going in circles and reaching nowhere. Like always departing, always bidding farewell. Like running towards horizon for the sunrise that never will be. Like being stripped of the warmth that sustains. Like sharp words being swallowed. A listless limbo. Learned helplessness. A hamster wheel.
Like always on the verge, always with the urge to keep pouring out the pain but it fails to recede.
What is the word for it?
Where is the way out?
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