The hardest part of routine is gaining / regaining it. Maintenance is mere habit. I’ve been outside of even my own minuscule schedule, and I’m finding it difficult to regain the track. I forget where I’ve left the things for what I mean to do, my phone taps my pocket to tell me about a message, which turns out to be a rejection letter, and I can’t even write it down in me in/out document because the version on my laptop is out of date.
Despite my best attempts to toss sand in the puddle my feet keep slipping.
It’s less a matter of “where am I” than it is “who am I?” Holidays and disruptions to routine always throw me, often fairly far. I think, because I don’t entirely believe in the external world, that it’s easier for me than for most to become lost from reality and to then begin questioning it. At times it’s comforting, sometimes it’s a nuisance, but as each morning is something of an existential crisis I’ve become adept enough at dealing with them not to fall too far behind on my regular chores, at least too far by my own definition of such. Maybe some people do their laundry more than twice a month.
Now I’m beginning to feel a bit like a cork, or a docked boat riding wakes. Another rejection message. Let me get my feet, eh? What, did you come off of break with a unified plan? Sheesh.
When am I going to hear from journals about which I actually care? I’ve never been one for hope, I much prefer blunt decisiveness, so even given the choice between knowing a rejection and wondering about a probably one I’ll lean toward the former. Schrodinger’s cat is always dead. Poor puss, no boots.
There’s no kung fu this week. That’s perhaps the most disruptive thing. Whether or not I go, I always intend to, and as such build my entire schedule around that six to nine slot. Without it, the evening stretches. With so much free time I can never get anything done. This is the most writing I’ve done in nearly a week. Yesterday’s fragments seem, on re-reading, the ramblings of a nut. Not a crazy person, a literal nut, maybe a pecan. Perhaps a filbert.
Oh, well. It’s time for this salty peanut to affect some sort of normalcy. Off to fiction write I go.