Mornings run like clock-work these days. The sun comes up too early and shines through the shade-less windows near the couch where I sleep. The puppy races down and jumps on me, licking my face excitedly wanting to be fed. Mom makes coffee, the familiar grinder whirring away reverbrating in my ears. Morning news, conversation and general chaos ensues. And then I get up.
I always thought I loved routines. Routines aren't always good. People make mistakes routinely, pain routinely follows hurt... and on and on. I wake up to routines, good and bad. We all do, really. I look in the mirror too long, criticizing. Pray. Lose my temper. Read a book to a sibling. Routinely.
The very thought of a break from the tempo of life as I know it is terrifying. This beat follows where I am, it keeps me like I am. That's just the point, I suppose. In order for there to be a new song, a next movement, there needs to be change. It's coming. Softly. Gently. Changing.
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