Every Day is the Same

Every day is the same.

I wake up, get dressed, go to work, work till 5, then head home. But don’t get me wrong, I may be normalcy, mundanity, orthodoxy incarnate, but I have no problem with that.

If every day is the same, then I know what to expect, no excitement, no disappointment.

But every year on the one day I dread, I visit my family to celebrate the birth of someone dead. But there’s something in me that changes, I can’t quite place it, love, joy, hope?

Maybe that’s just what Christmas does to my head.