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My coffee routine today was interrupted by comfort.

I started thinking that so much of what we do is decided by the level of comfort involved.

That pizza place we go to even if the prices skyrocketed lately and they bring less food on the plate; that newspaper we read because it’s brought at our door and reading any other would mean buying it from across the street; that job we go to every morning not particularly inspired, but content that it gets us from one month to the other; that call we never make because the voice at the other end of the line could turn our world upside down; that friend we keep seeing once a week even if politeness is written all over the picture; that relationship we invest in, hoping to feel once again; that apartment we postpone to move out from because it’s nice to come to a cooked dinner and clean sheets, despite the constant need to escape.

Somehow comfort started working against us. Wasn’t its purpose completely the opposite? It tricked us into thinking it helps us “estimate risks”, “be reasonable”, “not get hurt”, “not disappoint”, and “cherish what we have”; but shouldn’t we take risks, do unreasonable things, get hurt, aim at achieving more than we already have, be disappointed and not meet other people’s expectations once in a while? How else do we shape up? It’s like living your entire life in one country. It’s not a bad idea, but remember how enriched you feel once you see other places?

Perhaps we should get out more often. Out of the comfort zone and into the “what if”. Wear our glasses, take our vitamins, wear our comfy shoes and tell a friend where we’ll be. But go, nevertheless. Because we may find a restaurant that treats guests with smiles and fairness, a blog that challenges us to think, a dance studio that reminds us of the eight years we spent dancing, a lover who will share a lifetime of joy with us, a colleague whose kindness will move us like no friendship ever did, a home of our own where we’ll escape into someone’s arms and be infinitely happy.