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Routine

We all claim to despise routine. We see ourselves as vigilantes towards the mundane.  The reality is that it is not ours which we despise, but conforming to others.  I am a night owl, so the daylight hours bring me nothing but headaches and real world drama that warrants my attention. I desire not, to take long walks and look at birds. I don't like sipping tea, while gazing lovingly at the beautiful women who pass by.  I desire none of that.  I desire my bed; alone with my daydreams.  Dreams of evening filled with caviar, pate and champagne appetizers.  Stimulating conversation on which classic is superior, Citizen Kane or Texas Chainsaw.  Biting into lamb chops while listening to Beethoven, Bach or the Black Keys.  Sipping a Cabernet while listening to someone tell me of their child's first steps, while slightly ignoring them to gaze in wonderment at the girl across from me.  I wish to end my dreams, not with some debaucherous orgy, but with two people, sitting by a fire, sipping port and munching on an English Stilton or maybe some chevre.

To conform to societies wake at 7, in bed by 11 world is not for me. I've taken many an overnight job, to try and inject that heroin like fix, of dancing in the darkness.  Was there some vampirical bat that sneaked in one night and changed my into who I am?  Why must I eat bagels and eggs at in the morning?  Why not at 2?  Why must dinner be on the table the same time every evening?  "You're invited," they say, explaining my arrival is expected at 6.  I enter, the smell of stew simmers on the stove.  My mind races as, I see the enormous bowls, licking my upper teeth, to make sure the evidence of my last meal, eaten only moments ago, is gone.  Dessert by 7, maybe 8. Home by ten after some idle chatter and a Bailey's.  10 and their night is over as I set off into the night to start my day.  

They say suns rays bring happiness and life, but it's the darkness that inspires me.  The things that can't be seen have always interested me more than those which are always apparent.  Strange noises stir my mind.  No car horn or train whistle to remind me of the robotic lives we lead.  The purr of a cat, the hoot of an owl and the strange noises of an old house, it's secrets never showing themselves.  The heat from a pipe hisses, images of a floor of snakes, ones that would never show their fangs in the light. The crunch of the ground outside, I pull the curtain back, two eyes stare, we share a moment, two nocturnal beasts hunting for different things, they for food, maybe even shelter and I for meaning.  

The darkness begins to fade and light tries mightily to force it's way in. My eyelids get heavy.  It is my time to rest, to regain my strength to deal with the others.  To face a world that doesn't know what I know; the magic of the dark.  I see a pretty face and I smile.  She looks as if she entered into the darkness longer than she wanted.  She has conformed and her lack of sleep is apparent.  My hand reaches, to invite her in to my world, but then I refrain. Will she bring me into hers and make me like all the others.  Daytime zombies, hell bent on keeping a routine for which I have no use.  I take a sip of my coffee, a bite of a bagel, I look down, hoping they don't see that I am not like them. 

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