I am a creature of habit, yet I hate habit. It is like an intoxication culling segments of you, reducing yourself to a brood of crawling things. And like a broken piano, all keys now play the same intolerable, comatose chord.
I am addicted to habit: when I leave habit, I feel exhilarated and refreshed; when I reflect on my habit, I feel prisoner and desperate. Yet I can’t let habit go: it forms on me, it grows on me like the woolly fungi that grow on insects and induce torpor, becoming death.
I am thirty, and I still don’t know how to live.