I do not like the smell of comfort. It’s reminds me of the smell of the sweaty teenager who has drowned himself in Axe in the hope that no one would notice that he stinks.
This is not the comfort of the mother’s breast to the baby, or that of an old shoe, or the foods that we eat when we feel down. This is the comfort of a routine that has never been questioned, the things we accept because we do not want to cause trouble and the things we do not change because we are afraid.
I see this kind of comfort every day reminding me of why I don’t like it. In the name of comfort we accept abuse as care, do not change jobs, or turn a blind eye to untenable situations. We prefer the devil that we know, the managers we can predict and will do almost anything not to upset the applecart. We say that we are comfortable when we mean that we have found a way to live with the dis-ease.
“But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” – Alduos Huxley
What are you comfortable with? What dis-ease does it bring you?