Sometimes, whenever I think about it, it scares me how much of a slave I am to routine.
Decisions sting. I pass them onto others, just to avoid them. I hesitate, I don’t know what to say or do, I stall or try to change the subject. But even minor things, like what to eat for dinner or what to do on a Sunday afternoon lash out at me. I beg someone to give me something to do, tell me what to do. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care if I like it or not. Just give me something to do. Please.
Stress bites at my feet as I run to escape it. Routine is the exit, the only door out of a foreboding room filled with fog. Yes, other doors appear. But I know that Routine works, and so I escape that direction. And then I disappoint myself, because I never tried another door, the locks clicked as I approached, and the stress wrapped around my ankles, making me panic and take the sure route out.

“Should I eat something?”
“Are you hungry?”
Rocking, forward and backward. My hands go to my face. “I don’t know.”
“It’s not a life trauma, Adrienne. Eat an apple. Mother nature’s fruit.”
I hear the stale crackling in my ears that means I’m going to cry. I shake my head, hands still planted under my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

I try to break free, but there is no time to pick locks. Decisions must be made immediately. Some thought must be given, then they are to be finished. Not dwelled upon. So I run to Routine, wrench open the door, and slam it in stress’ face.
Stress finds me wherever I happen to be. It knows where I lurk and knows how to find me. I stumble when asked a question. I don’t want to be seen as a fool. I don’t want to be alone because I am too different, too weird. I am on a path on a hill that goes up forever, and I am never to reach the top. There is no top, for Routine goes on forever, never does it stop for any matter.
Words come to my head. An idea! A response! Maybe they will think it funny.
Maybe they won’t.
Stress grabs at me, pulls it inward. In life I keep trying. In dreams I let go. I fall back into the unending pit of doom. Isn’t it funny how everything bad is neverending? Forever is a pretty word, when you don’t think of what it means. Nothing should be forever. Forever is Routine, and Routine is a snake that grabs everything around it and pulls it towards itself in greed. Routine is unending because it does so every day.
My dreams are nightmares. They are of death, of fear, of darkness. They are of locks and rooms filled with fog and wandering passages that all lead to the only door without a challenge, the easiest route of escape. They are of falling. They are of failing.
I fail every day. Routine is failure.