Routine

Routine is slowly swallowing me whole.

Every morning I wake at 530 am to begin preparing for the day. Lately, 530 am brings with it a feeling of despair, stress, worry and I spend the next ten minutes contesting my muscles. They want to sleep. I want to sleep. Collectively we would prefer to hide under the mocha duvet, finding comfort and security snuggled in the down. We want to spend the day curled around the heat of last night's sleeping bodies.

The mornings are getting colder now. The floors are cold on my warm toes, frigid whispers of winter's promise. The children protest against my gentle murmers, wanting to remain in the vestiges of sleep where dreams become adventures. I pull them from their reveries with bowls of steaming oatmeal. Bleary-eyed and rosy cheeked, they slowly wind towards the day with complaints dormant on their lips.

It is moments like this that I wonder when I will be able to enjoy them. This. Life. When will the spinning top come screeching to a halt and rust, stuck in the moment. When will I have a chance to pause. Take in. Breathe. Will there come a day that I greet the morning with optimism, pushing up from the calm and not feeling the pressures to perform, dance, create - obtain.

Excellence.

Demanded.