Comfort doesn’t need to mean luxury. It doesn’t need to mean silks, pillows and perfumes. I might mean the steady, consistent load of a barbell or the soothing tap on a keyboard. The knurling pressing every so slightly into flesh and the kilos pressing down on your shoulders. This is isn’t painful. No, this is comfort. Comfort in knowing my goals are being achieved one step, one squat and one letter typed at a time. Each mile a victory. Each wight increase eagerly met. Every sentence gathering momentum and each paragraph consolidating the ground won.
I am tired. But I am comfortable.