Promised Land

My life is all about comfort.
My bed is firm, with a soft pad. Soft, cool sheets. Lots of pillows.
My clothing is geared toward comfort, not style. Sweats and t-shirts. Sneakers.

I have been comfortable in my isolation.
It is familiar. Predictable. Comforting.

Why am I dredging up all of this old pain? It was neatly arranged on the shelves of my mind, out of sight, but there if I needed it.

There is something better.
A risk.

I don't like risk.
Risk is dangerous.
Risk can kill you.
Risk can do worse.

Yet, I am drawn to this risk... this opportunity.

If sorting through all of the old baggage is what it takes to prepare me for the risk, then that is what I will do. What I must do.

I am not comfortable.
I am hurting.
I am tearing open old scars so that they might heal better.

All for a risk.
For what might be.
For uncertainty.