Every day feels the same; and, I no longer know if I like it or not.
I used to find routine one of the most comforting things in the world. Repetition, to me, was a thing of beauty, and to be honest, it still is. Call it boring, but waking up each day and knowing exactly what I needed to do and accomplish during my waking hours felt as if I naturally belonged into a world that makes me feel dejected and misunderstood. An order of actions gave me purpose. I felt bound to complete it because I would always condition myself into seeing these tasks as lifelines; failure to complete it would mean that I am becoming undeserving of the space I was given the chance to occupy. The same space that takes up so much of me and my energy to even fight for.
But lately, this place that i have in my heart for consistency has been slowly filling up with a hatred for it that I never expected myself to develop. Having full knowledge of how next day is most likely gonna be has been a bigger curse than it has been a blessing. If you told me to go through the day with my eyes closed for the greater half of it, I would probably have an 80% success rate. My hands and feet seem to know just exactly where they need to be, taking very little of my brain and will to mechanically operate.
I know that each day has its own secrets but I’m growing tired of looking for secrets within closets I’ve entered over a million times, bathrooms I’ve showered in for years, the 3 beds I lay in for almost 10 hours a day, and looking over the same window seeing the same house almost every minute of my life.
I am conscious of the privilege routine is based off — millions of people who don’t know where they would be hours from now fight to the death for some form of uniformity in their lives. This same awareness is what keeps me sane and binds me to live every day even though the rising and the setting of the sun no longer fills me with hope, but fills me with dread instead.
I fill my days with the same things that used to spark a fire within my soul but even these homegrown habits have turned their backs on me. I have been forcing myself to look for the tiniest flicker of brightness in every nook and cranny, but doing so screams pathetic and try-hard to me. I know that we all have to work for and seek for contentment and happiness as if our lives depend on it, yet the sheer amount of effort it takes to even get to the starting point towards the walk to fulfillment is one too many steps than I can’t be bothered to take right now.
Finding beauty within the lines of consistency and routine is something I always put in effort to do, but as days pass these carefully crafted sentences all share the same message. I have read this same story I’ve written over a hundred days ago, every day, and I have no idea what aspect of it I should change. As its author I’m not saying it’s perfect; I’m saying that the stubbornness of this same novel that I’m growing to despise is so comforting that I’m scared of changing it; even if these changes may be for the better.
I say that I don’t like where I’m currently at, but maybe, I do love wallowing in my old dark pit. Maybe, I do fetishize the toxic relationship I have with myself. Maybe, I do romanticize the scars that are littered all over the inside of my left thigh. Maybe, I do enjoy the not being okay; maybe, I do find comfort in the discomfort of patterns.
Mosquitoes grow from stagnant water and chains build up rust when they are left unused, the same way people fail to grow in the same spaces wherein they’ve been taught to feel small in. This is probably why after years of comfortably staying within the confines of my regimen based life, am I so desperate for the waves of change to wash my body clean. I have changed so much these past few months and I know a change of pace and scenery is exactly what I need. I have outgrown so many spaces and places but I lack the strength and heart to leave these dark pits and desolate rooms because I have learned to cultivate flowers in them despite the lack of sun. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to do the same in newer and brighter spaces because I only know what it’s like to be kept in the dark.
I don’t wanna feel stagnant anymore — but maybe, right now, that’s all I’m allowed to feel.
Until I am allowed to be new again and until I can grow again without fear and guilt, I’ll try my best to find a home within my own walls.
