Routine, ritual, rhythm. This is my mantra.
I seek the routine in the spinning of the orbs through space; so much grander and more exceptional than our clocks and calendars would have us believe:
Alarm, wake up, coffee (it’s a dependency). Computer screen. Blinking eyes. Tired eyes. Memories of last week already fading. Memories of yesterday already fading.
Blinking cursor. Find the words. This is my ritual, a humble weekly offering before the Gods, a little shaved-off sliver of my barely-conscious self.
Rhythm does not need to be sought. It is ever-present. In my breath. In the tapping of my fingers on the keys. In the mental metronome, that old Grandfather Clock, pendulum swinging.
Breathe in, breathe out. Blinking eyes; blinking cursor. Tired eyes survey the screen. Last weeks memories fade.
I write new routines. I conduct new rituals. Rhythm arises out of these moments, the rhythm of footsteps, the rhythm of time: the rhythm of beginning again.