I'm big on the comfort factor. Comfort in terms of letting go. In terms of not having to watch my step. In terms of my favorite shawl on my chair. I measure everything on the comfort scale - passion, chemistry and the rain.
Comfort vis-a-vis the self has been the most elusive.
From the absolute to the relative, comfort has moved from Che to a silver maruti to a photograph of a scrabble board on a cream wall in Central london.. it has been mushroom soup on a first day and it has been huddled in the middle of overwhelming affection. Faux leather blue sofas in a once-smelly kitchen and a second hand duvet cover. Hot dogs and books under a bridge. A now-torn map. the din of the tube. There were the impersonal headphones and of course, a boat on the Thames.
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