I have traveled far, I am well beyond your reach.
I have crossed the desert, climbed the mountains, swam the sea.
Your voice reduced to whispers from a speck along the beach,
yet still I hear you begging, pleading, calling out to me.

Your song is sweet, but I will pay no heed.
Your song may be sweet, but I will never heed.

The thought of rest is tempting, that much I will concede,
but my progress is unrepenting, my path you will not impede.

I stumble, stutter, lose my stride
No will left to carry on, adrift within the siren's song

It washes over me,
washes over me.

It washes over me,
tidal wave of complacency.
It washes over me,
comfort that I thought I'd never see.

Am I becoming weak?
Has comfort unchecked robbed my identity?

Fear.
Complacency has led me here.
Unmoved by the act of failing,
terrified of being a failure.

Equating rest with weakness as if I am not mortal,
with expectations far too high, I break and start to crumble.

The weight begins to bear down on me,
dropped to my knees by anxiety.

Comfort: my greatest fear, realized.

To reach beyond my fears,
survive another year.
What else could I hope for?

Someday I'll have a home,
but for now the world is mine to roam.
This is what I live for!

To know that someone's here,
that there is nothing left to fear.
What else could you hope for?

Creating comfort all your own,
the foundation for a perfect home.
Is this what you live for?

Someday we'll have a home,
but for now the world is ours to roam.
This is what we live for!

Comfort as respite will not give rise to failure,
but comfort as a way of life is the cessation of our ambition.

Someday we'll have a home,
a place to call our own,
somewhere to lick our wounds.

But for now the world is ours to roam,
unturning stone after stone.
at least I won't be doing it alone.