Each day is the same—a repetitive blur. 

My four alarms rouse me from my peaceful slumber, and I scramble and trip to the bathroom to do the same routine I have followed for two years. I drift through my house before entering the bitter cold of the outdoors at seven in the morning to catch the bus. I sit in a leather seat and listen to the same four songs as every other day. 

I even look forward to the same events and classes. Sixth hour is usually my sanctuary in the monotone brick building I am prisoner in. I catch myself daydreaming of lunch, where the same conversations lull next to me, elated by the prospect of eating. 

I move through the halls filled with people I have never spoken to but see every day. Each move is rehearsed—practiced the day before. I could close my eyes and find myself in my assigned seat, the movements memorized. 

Even the few changes that have occurred over the past few weeks have faded into the loop my life is stuck in. I follow the same patterns, complain about the same things, and do the same homework. 

I tend to find repetitiveness calming, but lately it has dulled my spirit. I feel as though I am a log adrift in the vast ocean of repetition, no island in sight. 

As ten o’clock nears each night, I draw into my covers and set my heart on a new dream of change, of something different. Six comes after my four alarms, and my desires are splintered. 

Repetition is no longer a comfort; it is a smothering blanket cast over my day and night. 

So I set out to fix it, though hazy on how I will lift the weighted blanket. I strive to make one small change each day, not complain, focus on the homework I am assigned, something to get out of the ocean of repetition. 

My hope is that small changes will grow into an island. New music, take different routes in the hallways, attempt to spot new people, there are endless possibilities. 

Yet as I complain of repetition, I fear change. One small change could trigger an endless wave of new things—a wave my small log is not prepared for. 

I have allowed myself to be stuck on the log for so long, I can’t picture myself without it. I panic at the thought of leaving my log, but the water is rising, the log is dissipating, and I am running out of time to make the change I crave. 

And though I have claimed summer is the island I am holding out for, the change of season will only bring a new kind of repetition, unless I stand and jump from my small log and make a change that will end the loop for every season to come. 

Though I fear change, I will push myself to face it and swim to the island that will draw closer with each new miniscule change.