Day 143

In stories there's a moment - a threshold that must be crossed, in order for our hero to begin their journey.
A door opening on a technicolor world, a rabbit hole descending into wonderland, or a call to be answered from a stranger who promises change.
This gateway isn't always so literal a formation, oftentimes it is an event, but the threshold is almost always external. Something sudden and new to shake them from their commonplace meanderings.
. . . life is not a drama.
That moment doesn't come for all of us.
"How much longer?" I hear myself ask.
When will the world force me out the door . . .
It may. It will. But when it does, I may not like the finality in the reason.
If I were writing this story - and in a way I am - I should like to write that no storm was needed to shake me free from complacency. That I found an inner wind to wrestle myself from entanglement.
That though circumstance, in part, determined this daily grind, I subject myself to it and it will not end tomorrow or the next day. Yet I will not slumber through this part.
I will be awakened within it. I will find art in repetition and let the steady rhythm fuel what comes next.
What comes next?
Well that would be telling.
The story hasn't even started yet.
Or it has, but the good part is about to start . . . I just need to write it down.