what is being comfortable?
are we bored by satisfaction?
are we all aiming towards
a place called home, or something
close to that-
do we want a story to tell? or do
stories just define us
Us
US

it's Arbitrary anyways,
this art and attrition and suffering,
Artificial, even. but maybe more real than this love.
any time she throws love in the mix,
she has to realize that nothing will make sense
it's all Subjective anyways.

What is being compared?
Do I compare myself, or how does the world
compare to me?

i see through lenses of inequality

unmoveable
someone else.

it's been too long
since i felt comfort

don't worry, our prophecies change based on our desires and decisions.