On the Seductions of Routine


Very recently on this blog, I talked about how it’s time that I finally learn to become comfortable with constantly having the existential rug pulled out from under my feet.

Like the majority of resolutions resulting from unwelcome epiphanies, it’s proven resolutely difficult to enact this particular notion.

At the end of most days, I find myself staring woefully into space, bewildered by how signicantly the day differed from the one before. (For years, my days passed with Kantian regularity, the hours of work, rest and leisure programmed and executed with the precision of the German railway system. Among the deeply-cherished things I’ve had to give up since I opened the studio has been the familiarity and stability of routine.)

Today, for the nth time, my attempt to re-establish some kind of order or pattern was cheerfully (and soundly) defeated by the universe.

A telling reminder that I am persistently refusing to learn what I’m supposed to be learning.

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

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