It had been slightly less than 48 hours since I moved into my new apartment. I also threw quite a bit of the condiments and seasonings I accumulated over the last 13 months or so in the trash, all because I was too lazy to pack them. That single act of bad judgement meant I would be making a run to the store to replenish, which ironically required more effort than just packing them in the first place. I purchased the stuff I needed, and headed home. Walked up 3 flights of stairs of building 9717 and opened the door marked 3E. Seconds upon entering, I noticed my place was completely gutted. Not a ounce of furniture in sight.
The problem was I didn't live in 9717 anymore. I moved to a smaller apartment just around the corner, on the first floor. My entire physical being was simply following familiar protocol. I stood there for 2 minutes and had a small laugh at myself, courtesy of myself, then contemplated what else I'm currently doing in my life simply out of routine.
My goal this summer, is to deliver small shocks to my senses, miniature reality checks, gentle shoulder taps I'd you will, just to make sure I'm not still on autopilot. Sort of like those annoying Netflix interruptions that ask if you're still there. I want to clearly discern being alive versus just living.