Comfort is a weed that chokes the flowers of discovery.
It suffocates all waywardness and hides in our recovery.
In warm blankets of repetition we slowly fall asleep,
stagnation whispers lullabies, helps us count the sheep.
Wake up from this old slumber, take up the walking stick.
Shine light into parts unknown, dismantle your politic.
Paint over a full canvas, alien forms and all your fear.
When it dries it\'s time again, been waiting all your years.
Like ink into oil from a fat sponge, your saturation wanes.
Sensitive now to your fragility, recall the way it stains,
the way newness breathes life into each and every small or sacred moment,
vast in its power, strong in its pull, surprising in it\'s bestowment.
The unfamiliar reminds us what it means to be in awe.
It teases ancient memory\'s, sculpts experience raw.
It reawakens curiosity and a certain self reflection.
It forces us into recognition, it generates connection.
Oh mystery that burns before me, let me have a peek.
Take me on a journey, give me naught unless I seek.
Terrifying and dangerous and uncomfortable I know,
Still I choose to face the labyrinth, pathways wrapped in snow.