The Doing
The repetitive things in life — there is magic in them, and I don't mean the kind with wands and spells and whatnot. I mean the magic of hope in living.
There is always something to stay alive for, even if it only becomes obvious that it's saving you in the exact moment you're in it.
For me,
I move the blankets and push the mattress back into place. This I must do often, as it slides away after a while of dragging myself out of bed each morning.
I clean the litterbox. It's unpleasant but my cats seem a little perkier when it's done. We all prefer a clean place to do our business.
I put the pillows back in place so I feel surrounded by safety and comfort each time I rest.
I check my handiwork on my dearest plush, a thread-woven scar from an emergency surgery I had to do on him, when I discovered a hole had his heatable beads spilling out along with his fluff. I have a kit now, of white thread and a needle, should he need any more doctoring. I check the scar often and fuss and worry.
These things can seem redundant on my worst days. But there is a spark within the doing, and doing again.
It is a spark that means I'm alive.