We all have our routines. Rituals that, despite their repetitive nature, we feel at ease with. We may break from such behavioral patterns but we can just as easily get back into that fail safe practice. It's therapeutic in a sense, allowing us a little bit of control a world where chance is a cruel mother that just as soon nurture you and kick you to the curb when you least expect it.
In our own little world of repetition, we feel secure. A domain wherein our own idea of order is constant, we tuck away worries in preparing for the day. Consistency, that would've been nice if it lived up to its meaning.
Things change. That cannot be, ironic as it may sound, changed. Nothing is ever constant, and like any good thing, routines come to an end. Routines involve people and objects. People go away, and objects eventually deteriorate. Sure both are replaceable to some extent, but sometimes one cannot bring back what was lost.
When faced with the habit of initiating this routine, we find ourselves pausing, simply because what was once there is no more. Losing a long held treasure like a car, a house or maybe even pen can be inexplicably difficult to absorb, even worse is when a person is the one absent. The usual good mornings to the friendly doorman, the long chats with a dear friend... a kiss goodbye from a loved one... these are perhaps the most devastating kind of loss, because it is when the routine is broken due to their absence that the loss truly sinks in.
And you realize with finality, that things will never be the same...