Warmth curled around my back as warmth eight years old soars into my head 600-something miles an hour, warmth just born soars into my eyes 186,000 miles a second and the first law of thermodynamics, for once, seems only to my benefit. In this strange little over-inhabited room I find myself slipping into comfort, a very dangerous place. And the warmth from the stereo moves me, the warmth from the lamp lets me view these words I pen, and the warmth from the girl curled up by the base of my spine drags me deep into comfort.

This worries me. How many times have I spoken out against comfort? Comfort, I once penned, is perhaps the most dangerous trap for the human mind to fall into, and now I go and take a swan dive for it. This is what crumbles the empires of the mind, this thing that feels so bloody wonderful, that I can't tear myself away from. But just how much danger does it truly present? And is comfort the defining factor here, or is it contentment? The latter is certainly healthy, I would like to think - "I would be perfectly happy to spend the rest of my days just like this." But why don't I, then? Why did I, in reality, try to avoid spending today quite like this? Maybe I'm not comfortable, then, although it certainly feels that way. Maybe I'm not comfortable knowing that I am not right now creating and seeking new avenues and to open up new possibilities for my not-yet-real "future self." Maybe that, which I condemned comfort as the true enemy of, is such a powerful thing in me that it, in an odd way, precludes true comfort - Why is it that once again, I can't seem to stop writing? It's not just that I have more to say and want to say it - no, my hand is cramping, I would like a sip of that coffee, I would like to ask my companion/backrest if she wants to get going, but I can't seem to do it - it is as if this drive which now acts through my writing denies me these other options that are all so mired in comfort. The question is, though, why do I give it so much power?