To My Dearest: Routine

To my Dearest,

I have found one of the greatest killers of motivation to be routine. Something about the monotony, it seems to stifle the urges towards urgings to at least continue.
It seems paradoxical: surely the act of keeping at something set to the times of days, is the perfect motivation.

But perhaps we truly are creatures of chaos, and as such, require a simple dose from time to time. A drop on the tongue to shake up the soul.
The word “plodding” comes to mind when I think of routine. A case of simply getting along with it.
So much to see and do in this world, and so much that comes spontaneously on the winds, why would we ever wish to blanket and ignore it? Making and sticking to lists that take almost as much time to make, as they do to do to do to do.

Of course, some order is needed: it makes parts of this world easier to stomach, and we are after all “the creatures of habit”. But even if those habits are good for us, maybe they aren’t the best for us.

I find our love has been the greatest spark of chaos for me. Without it, I feel I would slip into a days marked only by meals and alarms of rest and rise.
But with love, I find my thoughts trickling to your words, my time surging with my heart as a beat to a rhythm counting “I love you’s”.
And love, it takes me out of myself, a trap we often fall in to. Being absorbed in our own little worlds, how it is divvied up to the hours of the days and how much we can allow some things to take from us.
Love cares not for that. Love will take its place in the fore whether you like it or not. It cares not for when you want to sleep, for when you need to work, for what timetables you need to sort through your mind on the evening strolls.

It comes along, takes your neat piles of paper, and flings them into the aether.

And my Dearest, I would love it no other way.
With all my love, and all its chaos

A poem by Colm Horgan