The Morning Routine

 

A biological clock stirs me before the light,

A debt of sleep unpaid, yet I am awake.

For others, this "pressure" is an anchor for the soul,

A reason to wake up, a duty to undertake.

But for me, the pressure is a ghost in the room,

A vacuum that pulls the purpose from my lungs

before my feet have even touched the floor.

​I stay beneath the cozy blankets, hiding from the chill,

while my mind drifts back to the hills of childhood.

I see the hard paths I took, the steps I climbed,

Only to feel the earth slide backward beneath me.

It has been a habit for years, 

just when I’m nearly at the end of my paths,

A voice says, “You are done.”

I leave the path unfinished,

before the race is won.

​

The clock is ticking, the sun is up. Outside,  Robins and Tits makes their plans louder and louder. 

I move from bed to sofa, a change of sensus

That changes nothing at all.

The decaf coffee is warm in my hand, but the heart is cold;

I am back to my memories, shifting through the sand of my own routine.

I reach for the target, my hand outstretched,

Only for the invisible wall to reach once more. 

I give up. 

​The first time it happened, I called it "normal."

The second time, I called it "it's okay."

 Third time, I called it "fate". 

Now, I spend my time in a silence I have built for myself

A victim and a creator, living in a lonely world.

The messages flicker on the screen, the world still judges,

But their voise offers no meaning, no change, no "why."

They are signals from a life I cannot take part,

They are signals from a life I no longer recognize.

​Now brunch is drawing closer and the cup is dry.

I migrate to another location, 

this time a desk, beneath a cupboard where my treasure box is stored. 

I open the magic box, go through the memories once again, 

the routine takes its hold,

Preparing for another day of "almost the same,"

and a story that remains untold.

A lazy day. 

The morning routine. 

Sikaran 

21. 03.26