Habitual

I worry about myself.  I can't seem to break habits any more.  I won't say bad habits.  Just habits.  Anything.  I am becoming routine.  It doesn't matter if the routine is crazy or bizarre, it is still just routine.

For instance, I love my morning routine of rising, making coffee, reading, writing. . . . It is a lovely time.  It is so lovely that I have extended it and every day I am late.  It is my favorite time, though, when it is quiet and I am with my own thoughts and feelings and can sort them out as the morning sky comes bright.

But if something interrupts this, if something takes me away, I am out of sorts all day.  I haven't gotten to order my demons, I guess.  It is just a bit of house cleaning.

I have developed other routines, though, and then some others.  Some I would speak of, others perhaps not.  Regardless, though, routines are eating up the day.  In the end, there is little time left.

And as they say, there is nothing that competes with habit.

One of my annual habits is anticipating the new Woody Allen movie.  This one doesn't take up that much time, but probably more than it should.  I'm certain that Allen's behavior is habitual.  Still, it didn't keep him out of trouble.  Well. . . he didn't really get into trouble, did he?