The place of routines reaches out honeyed hands and ensnares like a net. The sweetness of the trap reveals its design. And still I reach back. How easy it is to retrace steps rather than taking new ones; how comforting to eat the memories of meals rather than finding real sustenance.
For a moment, I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to drown in old ways. Even when things were not good, they had a pattern and a path. In the worst of times, what better way to hide than through repetition, the comfort of routines?
Lift your arms. Struggle free. Watch the warm soup of sap drip from your exposed limbs. Feel the cold against unprotected skin. It may be necessary now to embrace pain and shake the shackles of blurred memories; that blanket warms only until you realize it also burns.