I can’t stop thinking about stubborn personal-routines.
The idea of setting patterns for ourselves, mental or physical solo-routines that we do, ironically enough, to keep our minds off of ourselves. Motions to keep us from examining, why we are in the situations we are in, the frightening idea that it could be because of our own decisions that we’ve landed here.
I’ve always loved lonely people. Introverts are where come the best conversations, the most gentle and intuitive lovers, unmatched art, literature, music, the funniest little kids. These are all people that no matter how well they fake extrovert-flag waving are just little loners, over-thinkers.
I’m writing a bunch of experiences, mostly from the fascinating, brilliant and terribly lonely figures in my own life. Some of my own bullshit, reasons I’ve stayed in things, reasons I’m not in things. Reasons I’m viciously codependent on myself.
Here’s the first of many moments. Moments of coming to a realization and maybe taking advantage. But, probably not.
Don’t let the cat out
The thought ran straight into his frontal lobe. Like a clumsy yet focused obese intruder, intent on blocking out any other neighboring brain-signals.
Yet he continued turning his wrist to the right. He had to stop.
The muscles in said forearm were on the cusp of their routine pushing preparation, tensing slightly, ready for full extension.
The motion caused his brain to lurch.
A familiar feeling at this point, one he challenged daily with olympian level endurance. All feelings of panic were transferred into an acceptance of his bodies’ sub-conscious alert systems.
He swallowed, he breathed a little of what was left out, a swift chug of open mouth air in and consciously allowed his wildly beating heart to continue in it’s excited state of ping pong ball puttering.
He didn’t realize his eyes were watering.
"There’s no cat"