Routines II

No one knew me.
Life became still and boring.

Life finally became chain mail.

Routines are circles.
Circles multiply and repeat.
They grow together into a giant circle chain mail.

That piece of armor needs to be put to an abrupt end.

Some people end their little linked knitted before it's over.

You're left with half a heart, half a circle, half a crazy design your grandmother came up with.

It'll never be finished.

It just means you did your routines half assed.

You can become depressed at your circles.

You can tell everyone what you think of them.

Just so you ask them, "How does that make you feel?".
You end up like the therapist talking to the little girl with the dead puppy or the dead goldfish but it doesn't matter because she'll get over it.

She'll get over Buddy or Dot, or whatever creative name she named him and move on to live life, create life, give life, raise life, and become another routine. Her routines will build up and she'll have her own piece of armor to hide behind.

I can feel my imaginary gun pressing against my temple.
I switch hands with it. Back and forth between sweaty hands.
The gun becomes wet in my hand and starts slipping.

Computer circles are the best.
They're not really circles. They're little blocks of pixels built up to build the illusion of an actual circle. Those little blocks become cubicles. Each cubicle has it's own life, it's own routine. It's own little Corporate America. Living in a world where a song like Mad World can be used in Microsoft commercials.

How can I pull the trigger with the best blood spatter?
How can I aim it so it'll look cool?

Will the CSI walk in and say, "Damn that must of hurt."?
"Why would he do this?"
"What a waste of life?"
"He could have worked at it."

If I go, will anyone miss me?
I can be replaced with another routine.
Someone else will take my place.
Take my job.
Take my life.

I'll become a Jane Doe. Or a John Doe.
It doesn't matter after death.
You end up in the ground either way.
All that's left is a stone tablet with your name etched it.

Here Lies a Dear Husband or Wife, Child or Father. Grandparent or Mother.
Roses sit but blow away.
Dirt washes everything away better than water.
The Wind carries the dirt that makes up the Earth.

The Earth. Another circle. Another routine.

Actually it's more oval shaped. Like the planets orbits, but that's beside the point.

Call it the Circle of Life. I call it a Routine of Eventual Death.