1/5/23

We spend our entire lives trying to postpone the inevitable. Death. Thanatos with his black foreboding wingspan. This is known. But what of the little deaths? When your balance starts to go, or your back begins to give little by little? The loss of a once cherished connection. Or perhaps the scariest of them all: the loss of memory. Comfort is the most sought after sensation in this race against time. One that is often overlooked is routine. To have a routine is to know with certainty that the things one cherishes will be there when they wake up in the morning. The routines which we complain about most often are a sort of demented luxury. A hinderance from finding your true purpose, but a cushion on which one can appreciate what it is they have, love, and desire. A home in which one can coordinate their next move, and insofar as they do not stray from it, live without regrets. In six months I will move on from the routine I've known for the last 5 years. As prepare to do so, I wonder: do the ends justify the means? I suppose the irony of it is only time, the vessel we run from for the duration of our tantalizingly short lives, can provide those answers. To run from time is to run from the truth. To run from the truth is to fear it. To fear the truth is to fear death. It seems as though to truly live is to be prepared to die.