Comfort

"But what you're meant to miss is that comfort, that sense of 'thereness' that encompasses everything. The 'thereness' that you go to, talk to, speak to, write to. You're meant to miss that 'thereness' but now you tell me that there wasn't any of it?"

"None, my friend. None. I would wake up in sweet agony and sleep in agony. It wasn't a comfort, it was a discomfort, a mangled ball and chain dragged along cracked pavement. It wore me out. It simply wore me out"

It walked over to him, placed a gentle hand on his shoulders and stared at him straight in the eyes. Looking back at each other, it and him, another conversation arose.

"If it wore you out, why? That is my only question to you. Why? Why would one put themselves without comfort, without 'thereness' when there is meant to be 'thereness'. Sweet agony you say? Why agony is never sweet, it is purely analytic. Why ascribe a word such as 'sweet' to it? Have you gone mad, my friend? You must be fucking mad."

"I'm sorry, but the agony became sweet. I got used to it. I-"

"You got used to it? That is the problem right there. Right there."

"But, there were times-"

"No. You lacked comfort and 'thereness', and the worst part was that you were used to it. My friend, think about it. Please."

It walked away from him in disgust. He  was left there staring through the window into the garden which bloomed with his agony.