It’s 10:30 PM on a quiet Saturday night. The prospect of a thirty-hour duty looms on the horizon. The clock is ticking. I retreat. Skincare transforms layers into armor; my crochet comforter becomes a fort. Lather-rinse-repeat builds up with meaning. I take time. I relearn. Shampoo is followed by hair treatment is followed by soothing scalp moisturizer. Lotion is swapped out for scrub and shea butter. It glides on. My brain empties. I spend small eternities lingering between my toner and Tretinoin, between the serum and moisturizer. I brush my hair. I breathe.
It’s four days into the week, and my room is a mess. My closet defines or defies disorder. Shopping bags mushroom into unruly piles. They revolt; I rise. I open the phone to music: pop in Korean, reggaeton Latino, SB19. I set twenty-five minutes of productivity to Japanese trap, five hundred seconds to rest. I press play. My floor surfaces from the typhoon that beset it. I press repeat. My bags fold into dusty corners and hidden spaces. I press stop. The weekend will return as a flood crests and recedes; I persist.
It’s five years ago, it’s ten years from now, it’s today. The routine is the same is ever changing. Between going home from work and blinking to daydreams, what happens then? Secrets expanding and contracting in that infinite lifetime, scrolling endlessly on the phone… I count the liminal hours, sat on the ottoman, the bed covers, the dining chair. I open Duo. I write ten tasks to be checked by the day and forgotten later. I drink sweet coffee. For the third time I snooze the alarm on my phone. For now it says “ten-minute tidy” every Monday night. Or “wake-up routine” every morning. Tomorrow it might say rest.
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Until next time! ♥
jari m 
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