Creature of Habit

Every morning I wake up and the sky is gray. If the sun shows itself, it's only briefly, and then I goes back into its hiding. I wonder if it too takes comfort in solitude, and peace, hiding on the other side of this murky veil. When I lay in bed at night, I imagine that I could be the sun, hiding, silently, under the covers. Tomorrow, I think, we will shine.

It would be a lie to say that some days are not dark here, in more than one way.

I am a creature of habit. Every afternoon for lunch I eat a tomato and fresh mozzarella. I go to class, I read The Times, I write. For dinner, some variation of the same thing I ate the night before. I shower before bed, I call John. All permeated by the same thoughts that I had yesterday, that I'll have tomorrow. It's easy to follow the routine, to fall into it, and to be bored. It doesn't appear boring until one day, it just is. The people, the places, it's mostly the same. And although I am a self described creature of habit, I am no friend of monotony.