Routine


Today is Sunday and as much as I dread the hours it possesses, my only comfort is that it will all come to pass.
And tomorrow will be Monday and as fast it goes, Tuesday I am back where I started, pining for another day of supposed peace. 
My days are spent waiting for nothing in particular. Patiently waiting for something I cannot see. It gets under my skin, this pointlessness. 

I wish I could cut it out; remove it. But it is elusive, as I tear my skin apart looking for it.

Advertisements