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The frightening realization that people live their entire lives like gerbils running in their wheels, and sometimes come away empty-handed.
I'm a teenager; I like to write, play music, and read old English manuscripts.
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"After awhile it gets routine. Everything does."
Look at that line. The words slip out so easily. They�re the sort of thing one says with a shrug. The sort of thing one half-hears in a preoccupied conversation. No one pays much attention to those little words.
But they�ve been bothering me lately.
I�m sure I�ve heard them before in my life. I�m sure I�ve said them myself. And they�ve gone unnoticed, either because the context was unimportant enough to hide it or I was too focused on something else to care. I guess it didn�t hurt anyone that time. But yesterday it hurt. It hurt and no one even noticed.
It happened to a friend and a friend and me. We were sitting on the school bus home. Dark out; we leave school late. Talking little, trite stuff. The conversation twisted to somebody�s uncle who narrowly missed death in September 11th attacks. A girl says: "I�ll bet he�s changed for life, huh? I can�t imagine. Knowing every second is a gift-that you should have been dead, but G-d gave you more time." Someone comments on the loss of someone they knew.
The bus stops at her corner, and she gathers her things.
A girl offers sympathy.
She walks to the bus door, shrugs: "After awhile it gets routine. Everything does."
Then, without another thought, she hops onto the sidewalk and starts the walk home; the same walk she takes every day. The girls in the bus resume their conversation. Those sneaky little words have gone hidden again.
A person dies. A life ends. A black hole torn in the fabric of the world. Routine. Everything is. It�s just routine.
Lying in bed at night, reviewing the day in her head, it�s those words that stick hauntingly in her mind. "After awhile it gets routine. Everything does." Routine. Her entire life: routine. She does the same things every day, every night. All her friends do the same things. Her mother, her family. She can�t put words in their mouth, but she can predict where they are and what they�re doing. Routine. Breakfast, bookbag, bus. Classes, break, lunch. Routine. Friends, dishes, laundry. Hello, goodbye, goodnight. Sickness, growth, death. Routine.
That girl is me, and it�s almost too much for me to imagine. My baby sister grew up over night. Yesterday she was an infant. Today she walks, talks, laughs, sings. She could be in college by tomorrow. Routine. I didn�t notice she had changed until just last night. Routine. Think about it. My G-d, I�m only going to be on this earth a certain amount of days and if I live every single one like nothing more than a tired routine, then did my life have any purpose at all? A person dies. Routine. Routine. It�s not routine!
Today is the third Tuesday in November of the 2002. I will never live this day again. When I go to sleep tonight, whatever I�ve done today is done and sealed. My parents, my friends. When I am sixty-five looking back, what will I remember? A blur of going to school and coming home and a few words scribbled on a pad of paper?
"After awhile it gets routine. Everything does."
Yes, we�re right to say it. Everything does get routine. Most people get up in the morning, go to work, go to sleep at night, and have no further memories of that day. When I am sixty-five, that is probably all I�ll remember. We run in our little wheels until we die, people mourn us for a little while, and then our memory becomes another routine.
Is there an answer? I don�t know.
And oh, look at that, I don�t have any more time to think about it. Because, you see, it�s nine o�clock, and everyday I write from only eight to nine, and then I�ve got to make the beds. I couldn�t continue writing into my making-beds time, or it would throw off my entire routine�
|READER'S REVIEWS (6)
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"Most of this, has already been said by numerous other authors. Some of which, developed this matters much deeper than this. My advice is for you to read some of them. Authors like: Albert Camus, Jean Paul Sartre, William Faulkner. I also advise you to read some portuguese authors like: Ant�nio Lobo Antunes and the famous poet Fernando Pessoa. All of these can provide you a great reading experience, and a profitable one if you're willing to take advantage of it. Routine can lead one to monotony, despair, entropy. The act of writting should/must be a way to surpass such feeling. One most not acomodate him self with the life he's taking. " -- �lvaro de Campos.
"Thank you. " -- Pearl.
"This work touched on an issue that I think everyone can relate to at some, or -maybe as in your mind- all points in their lives. I wrote a piece entitled 'Routine' a while back but it never saw the light of day because it always tended to depress me immensely. This, however, was enjoyable to read and well written too, which I don't think can ever be bad points. I especially liked the last few lines!" -- Rowan Davies.
"Hey, Pearl. I can see why you liked my story. Although, I must admit, my story was not intended to be a message, or express the way I felt, it was only me fooling around with ideas in my head. I liked what you wrote, and a lot of the time I feel the same way, like your whole life is planned and plotted, everyday the same this the same that. That's why, for me at least, writing means a lot. Good story. Cheers." -- Robert Bell.
"hey pearl. how would school be w/out routine? picture this: school every other day of every other week in every other month... and chores, ditto... it would be bliss - but not reality! so do little stuff to make it more interesting and break out of the cycle. just a suggestion.." -- miriam.
"thanks, will do. i find music and things help me do that, make it more interesting and spontaneous. the point i was trying to make is that ppl can go through their entire day on auto pilot, and when it's over, it's almost as if they never lived that day. it's hard to explain...see above reviews, lol" -- pearl.
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© 2002 Pearl S
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