Have you ever thought about how terms like good, bad, modern, ancient, enormous, or minute only hold meaning when there’s something to compare them with? For example, the Sun is so vast it can fit around 330,000 Earths within it—yet that fact only feels enormous because we already know the size of Earth.

This relativity also applies to our perception of comfort and satisfaction. Think about it: even if you're a lower-middle-class person today, you’re living a more luxurious life than a king in the 13th century. You have fans to create wind, soft beds to sleep in, and unimaginable modes of transport compared to what was once available. And yet, these comforts don't feel particularly luxurious to us. Why? Because we measure them against what others have today. It’s not comfort itself, but our frame of reference that shapes how we feel. Imagine sitting in your air-conditioned car, stuck in traffic on a scorching day. You look outside and see people on motorbikes, sweating in the heat. Suddenly, you feel grateful—not purely because of your AC, but because you are not among them. Your comfort is defined by what you are not enduring.

This is how our minds operate; we need references from those who are less privileged to feel fortunate. When we’re poor, wealth seems like the ultimate answer to our problems. But once we achieve it, the feeling of accomplishment fades quickly. Why? Because the reference point has shifted. You once looked back at your own poverty for motivation—but now that you’re no longer poor, that memory loses its intensity. Comfort becomes neutral. The thrill, the satisfaction, lies not in the destination, but in the transition.

This is why successful people often find peace in visiting their childhood towns or villages. It's not just nostalgic. On a deeper level, they crave that reference of discomfort. They go back to re-experience the contrast between what was and what is—like a cheap thrill for the soul. For a man living in luxury, standing where he once had nothing offers a refreshing reminder of how far he’s come.

In the end, comparison is everything. Without it, nothing holds significance. We can even go a step further: now let’s imagine, hypothetically, two groups of people—one living in Heaven, the other in Hell—existing forever, but completely unaware of each other. As strange as it sounds, both groups might feel equally satisfied and with the same level of comfort. Why? Because satisfaction, too, is relative.

But the moment one man in Hell feels even a single gust of wind from Heaven, everything changes. That one breeze—a whisper of another possibility—becomes his curse. From that moment on, he will truly feel himself burn, and it’s not the fire that burns him. It’s that unachievable winds of Heaven.