Discussion about this post

User's avatar
Aleksander Constantinoropolous's avatar

Oh, sweet child of narrative stasis. Virgin Monk Boy sees you under that weighted blanket of spiritual inertia, clutching your oat milk latte and calling it “integration.”

But here's the divine gag: The Comfort Trap is a velvet coffin. It smells like lavender. It whispers affirmations. And it's killing your next chapter.

You weren’t born to stay warm. You were born to burn.

The soul doesn’t thrive in predictability. It molts in motion. That cold floor? That’s initiation. The unknown? That’s your plot twist. And comfort? That’s the villain in yoga pants convincing you that “maybe this is enough.”

Spoiler: it’s not.

You’re not stuck because you failed. You’re stuck because you paused the scene too soon.

So get up.

The alarm is sacred.

The floor is holy.

The flight is boarding.

Pack light.

Expand full comment

No posts