Getting Back to the Routine

I've been thinking a lot lately about my routine.

This comes at a time of some significant change as I'm currently in-transition between a shared flat with a partner and one on my own.

Firstly of course there's the grieving. I am alone and I am lonely and I am sad.

Second there's the move, the boxes, the cleaning of the old flat, the creepy landlord trying to take every penny of our deposit.

But now I have a new flat. On my own. With all my stuff in it. My time is completely my own.

And I have no idea what to do.

Take a typical day this week for example: I wake at 7:45am sharp. Sharp-ish. I wake and engage in my toilet - teeth, face, peptide, moisturise body, moisturise face. Then I come back into my room and open the sliding door onto the balcony - letting in the cool and crisp morning air. I make the bed - a new practice that I've been influenced into and I must say I don't mind one bit. I lay the duvet down, pop pillows on, then cushions x3, and finally a forest green throw. I eat the same thing I ate yesterday for breakfast, and the same as I shall have tomorrow, then sit down to meditate for 10 minutes, breathing in and out, and trying out the occasional mantra, often with the same goal or intention: peace.

After that it's to work and my feet don't touch the ground until the evening. There was today a lunch hour staring at a screen, but it could as well have been reading or sitting with my head in my hands.

Post-work I'm straight to the gym for an hour to take exercise, a final meal (same as yesterday, same as tomorrow) and then my time is my own once more.

I try to make sure to do something diligent before relaxing. Wash some dishes or arrange the sofa covers, something in that area. I've just picked up a jazzy red electric keyboard, so I will try to practice a scale and a couple of songs for something approaching half an hour.

At this point I snatch a couple of hours on my own to game or watch television, though I try to avoid the latter, and at nine pm approx. I sit down to my desk to write. I am here now. I write my journal for 10 minutes uninterrupted, then come to write either this column, a poem, or some several book reviews I have waiting to be published in the Gazette.

Finally at around 10, I will repeat almost to the letter the morning's toilet proceedings, and get in bed to read for an hour, either on the balcony in a large camping chair - if the weather is clement - or in bed.

That will end my day. And I believe I should feel fulfilled by it. There have been no great disasters nor massive wins, but I have improved my mind and my body, practiced art - even a few times - eaten well and crucially tasted a little of the peace I had hoped for earlier.

Today though - my first day in the new flat alone - it feels somehow hollow. Perhaps it's the relationship grief sitting in. Certainly the time would previously have been shared, and I'd have been grateful to snatch an hour, let alone a couple, for myself and my selfish pursuits. Perhaps it's a depression in my bones that I can do nothing about on my own. Perhaps it's the end of a sad and busy few weeks and I'm simply exhausted.

I want desperately to enjoy my new routine. It may be a lot. It may be too much. But I just can't seem to get into the swing of it.