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I read poetry when I felt uncomfortable and disheartened. Poetry acted as an escape into a parallel world where sentences are delectable and the emotions bare. A space where I lived free. Things felt better. So much had been written, so beautifully, so succinctly, for decades together that I naturally felt the weight lessen.┬áBut today was different. Poetry wasn’t working its charm. After attempting a few distractions and failing, I succumbed to the discomfort I felt to try to understand it. I didn’t progress too much. But living in discomfort even for a few fleeting hours was painful for me. I avoided any and every controversy to my best. I hardly had the gumption to battle it out with myself let alone others. I couldn’t figure out since when I began this evasive strategy of mine. Willingly opting for silence over confronting others. It wasn’t a sacrifice of any sort in order to avoid arguments but rather a systematic way to keep away from uneasiness. I wonder what led me to this. I wonder if a series of confrontations with people will help me break this cycle. But importantly, what can I change by confronting or by feeling uncomfortable?