The routine, man, it’s killin’ me.

Wake up in the morning, tired, too tired for the day, but having to face it, anyway. Brush my teeth, maybe a cup of coffee. Feed the little one breakfast, get dressed, and then it’s off to work.

Get home, make supper, maybe give the little one a bath. Still so tired, so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I can barely stay awake through whatever mindless thing I watch on TV, there’s no way I can write something, not like this.

The numb, normal thoughts are too much, there’s no way I can try to strive for creative thought. Writing something? Nah, man.

Writing something worth reading? Not a chance.

Bed time, and that’s when the thoughts pile on, all the stuff that’s out of my control, all the opportunities I’ve wasted, all the things ahead that I’m unprepared to handle.

And finally, sleep, which is over too quickly, and another morning.

Weekend arrives, and ends, just as I finish cleaning the house, as I tuck the last pair of socks into the drawer or hang the last shirt, and then it’s time again, for the routine.

Days, weeks, months slip by. Where did the time go?

Routine is a horror movie monster that can’t be stopped, eating everything in its path. Taking life, stealing it.

I find myself amazed at how easily it has defeated me, time and again.

The worst part is, it’s really not that bad. At least if it was awful, maybe I could motivate myself to change. But while it isn’t what I would call a good time, it is undeniably comfortable.

“What have you been up?”

“Same old thing,” I say, and it’s the absolute truth. And it isn’t a reply made with anger or sadness, but rather a hint of embarrassment, and perhaps a bit of wistfulness.

I thought I could beat it, you see. I thought that no matter what, I’d always have my words to hide behind, the sound of the keyboard keeping the routine at bay. But I let the words escape, and the keys fell silent, and now there is only the sound of time as it slips away. It’s quiet, but constant.

And just another part of the routine.