If someone were to live their entire life in a city where the fog never lifts, that condition would eventually come to feel normal. The idea that “visibility is poor” would not even arise. To such a person, saying “once the fog clears, you will be able to see many things” would likely be met with confusion. “Many things? See? What does that even mean?”
A chronic state is much the same. It may appear as a pattern of the ego, or as something physical. Persistent headaches, congestion, digestive discomfort. When such conditions linger long enough, they are often accepted as part of who one is. “This is just how I am.”
Comfort, in its original form, is universal. Ordinary. Foundational. Yet when layers of impurities accumulate on top of it—let us call them that for convenience—it becomes easy to forget that comfort was ever there. It is not something to be newly acquired. When the impurities fall away, it simply reveals itself.
What matters is not the intention to remove them.
The wind moves regardless. It always has.
Perhaps what sustains the repetition is the quiet effort to keep placing those impurities back onto the foundation, again and again, resisting what is already moving.
Which is to say, quite simply, that I have decided to visit a clinic next week. It is time.