How much of what we do is ritual? How much of the structure of our lives is a mere collection of habits, interwoven through our hours and minutes to keep us moving from moment to moment so that we don’t realize how little we know or control?
What happens when you realize that you’ve lost contact and are now drifting, the familiar and comfortable receding to where they’re only visible from a distance, unfocused? Why don’t we notice it happening, like a stall-warning buffeting for our reality, allowing us to regain control before we spin out and drop?
What do we do when the good music sounds tinny in our ears, the inspiring images appear bland, and the words of wisdom sound like so much blathering claptrap?
Does it help to try to search back for the trigger, the root cause of the day’s ennui? What should we do if we identify it, but instead of banishing and sacrificing it in order to regain contact with our routine, we find it to be a new and unpleasant truth?
Did Charlie Gordon know what was happening to him, or was he blissfully ignorant, unburdened by memory, aspirations, and expectations? Does one have to exist outside in order to see the implosion, the mythical observer in the collapse of a Heisenberg quantum waveform?
When it’s my time, will I know?
Does thinking it through and trying to put it all into words act to help?