It was in Sweden when I first started to lose a sense of time, or indeed reality. I think it had something to do with the repetitive nature of my day. Of course, most daily routine is just that; routine and thus repetitive. Who am I to complain? I was on my Grand Adventure, out in the world. Seeing the sights and snapping away, documenting my very existence.
But like all repetitive actions, my trip had become a job like any other. Arise with the alarm, eat an appropriate breakfast, leave at a suitable hour and complete the set task within a fixed time frame. Of course I needed the daily goals; a sense of order, otherwise I really would have lost it.
For all I did was turn my legs around and around. All day. Everyday. Some would call it torture, some would call it the greatest pleasure known to man. I just called it life. I could not recall a time when it was not seemingly the purpose of my very existence on this earth. For a while there it was a great relief to spin, and just keep spinning.
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