In my day-to-day world I don't do much. My life is filled with routine, so it becomes easy. My companies make me money. Neither interests me. I write to have passion in my life. My only book, to date, a cult classic, got a small group of followers. I think they want to kill me. One probably will. Much like how John Lennon was killed. Of this, I am not sure.
Occasionally I play with the concept of writing my next masterpiece. Technically speaking, I don't do much.
I've build a world for myself that relies on comfort. My own personal comfort. 5 hours sleep. Up at 9am. Hot chocolate everyday apart from weekends. 3 scoops of granulated chocolate in my 'hot chocolate mug'. Fill with three quarters of whole milk. 1 minute and 20 seconds in the microwave. Keep the spoon in the tin of granulated chocolate. Ready to stir the heated beverage. This is efficient. It means you can use the same spoon without putting it on the unclean work surface. Whilst the hot chocolate is heating in the microwave I can place just two croissants on a microwaveable plate ready to be warmed for just 30 seconds. Finished by the usage of two serviettes to cleanse the crusts that will be left on my fingertips from the heated croissants.
This, amongst, my other daily routines is almost biblical. My day has routines so that I remain content and in control.
I have no time for folks without routine. Their lives are a mess. They live life on the peripheral of mayhem. My 'friends' seem to be all like this. They call, I don't answer. I don't want to waste minutes or, worse, hours on the phone talking about them. And I sure as hell don't want to talk about me. My life is simple. Simple and boring. I like it that way. No stories to tell. They do have stories, in abundance, and I don't want to hear them. They're mainly in the creative field, these ‘friends’. They think personal chaos is creativity. To a degree, I guess they're right.
Back to her again. She is the forbearer of this - the dastardly evil genius of chaos. She has no logic or order. One week she's in Paris, the next in Cuba. She attempting to find herself. You know that's one thing I've never understood...why people feel the need to travel hundreds and thousands of miles to 'find themselves' - this defeats all logic. Not only is it not cost effective, it’s also very contrived. She doesn't have to worry about that. She is from a wealthy background. She can find herself over and over again in different continents. Like some schizophrenic circumnavigator. When space becomes a destination of personal travel, she’ll go and 'find herself' there as well.
She annoys me. She has no routine. Only intellect. When I meet her she is often sitting - very content - in her own space reading the Economist or some Dan Brown crap. She 'gets' it. Me, I don't like to read. I get bored. Just like I don't like to sleep. She loves sleep. 8-14 hours. When I meet her and she puts down her book of choice, I am always greeted by that same explosion of smile. Her smile illuminates my dark undertones - it makes me feel homely. Femme fatales don't exist anymore. Women are allowed to work nowadays. Meaning they don’t need to dress nicely and lure men into their web of intrigue for money and fame. If they did exist, she'd have a perfect day job and night job to supplement that. I hate her for that. She's my Ingrid Bergman.
Her brilliance confuses me. The heartache she gives me inspires me. It makes me want to write poetry and textual genius.
She is also my muse. Breaking my routine with her lack of it. Emailing me at 11am to tell me to meet her for coffee at 3pm. That was never on my schedule for today. It is now. Her lack of routine confuses my routine but also becomes routine.
How I love routine. It makes me happy. Provides me with happiness.
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