And when I grew tired of suffering, I wanted to sleep.

And when I sought sleep, I wanted to be comfortable.

And when I sought comfort, then everything made me uncomfortable.

Life hurt me, the air suffocated me, love weighed on me.

My bubble grew harder and still I suffered more.

Concrete beneath my feet, a pillow beneath my head.

Food on every corner, a streetlight on every street.

Workers to do for me, leaders to think for me.

I sought vice to lose myself and darkness so I would not see myself.

Getting lost in the trivial, clinging to the colossal.

I sought to destroy myself and still I suffered more.

And where did I go wrong?

Could it be that comfort is not the same as peace?

Could it be better to accept life in all its force?

Could it be that I cannot separate myself from the jungle that begets me?

Could it be that being human is roaming savannas, defying earthquakes and getting soaked in the rain?

Could it be that being divine is living it all, even if it means suffering?

Could it be that I need nothing but to stay awake?

And what if, even so, everything is fine?