I workout five days in a week. When my all my paid work finishes at 4:30, I read for an hour after or take a walk around the area, make dinner at 5:30 or 6, take a one-hour nap, then have dinner at seven. After that, I allow myself to be drowned by asinine noise emanating from the TV, or if I could think of anything better to do, I write. At around ten when I get tired of thinking, reading, or working, I hop on to my ever dependable black trainers and walk to a nearby Gold’s and sweat it off until I’m sure I have enough. Although this part doesn’t come too easy as there are days when the call of sleep is much stronger than my desire to grow bulging biceps or massive pecs. At 11:30 or just before midnight, I retire to my bed contented with the delusion that my day is spent well.
A part of me tells me this is not all there is to life. That I must be a part of an entity bigger than myself. That I need to figure out the role of my piece in this giant puzzle. That having a mission will give meaning to my existence. Ho hum.
One of the many advantages of having a routine is that one always finds himself resorting to auto-pilot, freeing up the mind for more important cerebration. One issue, however, with routine is that its repeated rhythmic humming is so comforting that if one is not careful enough he will be left in a state of coma he might not recover from, or in the event he recovers, forever altering him, maybe even disabling some of his important functions.
And that I fear.
We all want to feel secure with the knowledge that the current state of things will not change any time soon, that what we are working on right now will remain relevant until we’re able to adjust to something new well enough.
Some will exhort, these are the more driven ones, to seize our moment in the sun. To chase the wind.
But what if my goal is paralysis, stasis, sedentariness, comfort?