Pointless in Seattle

I noticed that the toilet paper dispenser was crooked again today. Had to adjust it. Again. Got me thinking about things like time and life and people. Repetition is the only thing you can really count on. You have to breathe every day. Your heart has to beat. It just keeps going and going and going until it doesn't. And then what? Every day you get up. Every day. You turn on the faucet. You run your hands under the water, brush your teeth, take a shower. You get dressed, put your shoes on, go out into the world. And even when you don't, you're still breathing, your heart is still beating. Until one day it doesn't anymore. It's kind of like water cutting a path through stone. Again and again and again the water just courses over it until eventually, through sheer force of repetitive motion, the stone relents. Every. Single. Day. Hand on the doorknob, feet on the floor, toothpaste on your tongue, air in your lungs and that God damned toilet paper dispenser askew again.

We like to think we're unique. Snowflakes. But we're not. We're all just the same people doing all the same things, breathing and moving and buying and hating and (on occasion) loving. The years keep passing, wearing us thin, slowing our breath and our hearts until we relent like stone. Still, I suppose there's beauty in it somewhere, hidden in the tiny nuances that separate today from yesterday and in that shimmer on the horizon of tomorrow. The searing white dazzle of possibility. And yet, even tomorrow still brings the breathing and the beating and the manufactured frenzy of daily life. Until it doesn't. And then what?