People slobber over morning routines because they think life is some neat little formula, wake up at five, swallow your vitamins, stretch like a monk, scribble about gratitude. As if the right cocktail of kale juice and cold showers could save them from the absurd joke of existence. They don’t crave mornings, they crave a script. Something to hold onto so they don’t have to stare into the blank page of their own damn life.
Stop pretending a perfect sunrise will turn you into a millionaire, a writer, or a success. Just get up, light your cigarette, pour your coffee, and stumble through the day. Stop kneeling at the altar of other people’s routines. Their mornings won’t save you. Nothing really will, except getting on with it.
People ditch religion, but they still crawl back to the same damn instinct. Only now it’s called morning routines. They want commandments dressed up as to-do lists. Pray? No, meditate. Communion? No, green juice. Confession? No, journaling. Fajr? No, ice baths. Different faiths, same hunger: a script to keep the chaos at bay. Because without a script, you have to face yourself, your doubts, your emptiness, your quiet dread. And that’s the scariest reality, the harshest voice, the only truth left standing.
FrequencyForty 