Comfort

What is comfort

In a universe that is ripping itself apart,

Where babies are torn out bloody and screaming,

Then thrown into lives in which the only certainties

Are confusion, pain, death; searching for meaning

In a world that is nothing but chaos and wreckage,

They scratch, bite, and fight- desperate to keep dreaming

That they can protect themselves with ideologies;

Hands over their ears to keep out the screaming;

Umbrellas opened up against a rain of gunfire.

Comfort is the illusion of control,

The idea that this time the umbrella

Will stop all of the bullets.

I write with the hands of the first ape-man

To reject the homeostatic malaise

And the reptilian way,

Closing the umbrella to feel the storm;

To fling consciousness into eternity

And trade comfort for glory,

Forsaking the safety of Plato’s cave

To stare into the unblinking eye of god

For maybe the only time,

Loving the savage thrill of existing

To crash through an exploding infinity

Where chaos is the sole truth,

The only knowledge is self awareness,

The only art is self destruction- and we

Have never been comfortable.