A blur view,

Today is no different. And words can, to some extent, confirm its immense aimlessness. Routine kills creativity, words I have seen and heard multiple times. It is heart-aching the way randomness, unsettlement, loss, and nothingness are painting, creatively, the roads of my life. I have been always a person who had a mighty discontent for rashness, that of what lies outside my room. I have instead supported calmness, sought slowness, and followed what remained likely unchanged. Change is terrifying, for since we were little creatures we kept our mouths prepared for crying over the very little examples of it. We hated showers, we hated diaper’s changing, we screamed, loudly, when mother’s disappearance. We grew older a bit, and we continued, unintentionally, the plot against change. We cried for leaving our hometowns, we asked our cousins to stay a bit longer so that we keep playing and chattering under the moon in a warm night, and we, extremely, hated exams. All these are trivial examples for change, indeed.

Until we sip the wines of adulthood, which does likely start at twenty of age, I decided ; this unconscious refusal against one of the most supreme lows of universe becomes an unforgivable sin. It has its own title, its own unique headline, and its own big name: The Comfort Zone. It is the bitter hidden behind the sweet. It offers a long-lasting contract with a wrong, very wrong kind of settlement. It offers false security and incomplete comfortable- ness. It promises unfaithfully for fulfillment, but it never honors. It builds a fictional realm that doesn’t do any good but nurtures anxiety behind its vast doors. The realm, the imaginary realm has castles out of glass, fruit gardens out of gold and diamond, and has streets above clean waters. It casts a spell, a stark succeeded spell on its owner. It prevents them from crossing its doors by whispering warmly into the ear: “the worlds outside are of danger, thus you shall remain unmoved “.

Forsaken the untrue realm of comfortableness is a must. We are what we do to others. We are what we create out, in the realms of a real world. We are our writings, our arts, our adve- ntures, our readings, our songs, our footprints in the sands of reality. Again, we shall be those who create, more or less.

I am ruined by this fact. It frightens me. It makes me feel, truly, the burden we shall carry above the shoulders; a burden that has great deal of weights to be endured. If one chooses to create, then there is a burden, that of change; but If one chooses not to, then there would be, also, sadly, another sort of much heavier burden, that of nothing- ness, purposelessness, and loss. It is troublesome, for I have to go out of my castle, my glassy magnificent castle, and face the doomed gray world out there.

I am asked to relinquish the monstrous safety that accompanied me throughout my past years. I am asked to accept the quest, and to , heartfully, obey its orders. I am asked to abandon the silent corners of my unfulfillment reality in ask for another more worthy one. And that is the toughest of them all.
 Am I to make it? Are you to make it? God knows.