Drifting Through Days and Nights
A Life Without Routine
For those who have jobs, life often has a structure, a pattern, a sense of purpose. They wake up early in the morning, sometimes before the sun rises, get ready, and step out into the world. They spend their day working—whether in offices, on the field, or in other settings—and by the end of the day, they are tired, longing for rest. They return home, have a meal, and attempt to unwind. Most of them try to sleep early, aiming to wake up the next morning and repeat the cycle. There’s a sense of discipline, an effort to maintain balance despite the pressures of work. Even when life gets chaotic, there’s a rhythm they follow—a routine that keeps them grounded.
But for a group of people like me, who are without jobs, the story unfolds in a very different way.
Nights turn into long, unending hours where time seems to lose its meaning. The phone becomes the constant companion—scrolling through social media feeds, watching videos, reading random articles, or mindlessly jumping from one app to another. There’s no sense of urgency, no tasks waiting to be completed, no deadlines that need to be met. The hours stretch endlessly, and sleep is no longer a priority—it becomes a distant thought, something that might happen eventually. The eyes grow tired, the mind becomes foggy, and yet, there’s a strange resistance to closing the phone and surrendering to sleep.
And then, when the body can take no more, sleep finally arrives—not as a gentle, planned rest, but as an inevitable collapse. The phone slips from my hand, my head falls back, and I drift into a hazy, broken sleep. By the time the rooster starts crowing in the early hours, announcing the arrival of a new day, that’s when sleep embraces me most tightly. The rest of the world is beginning its day—people are getting ready for work, making tea, preparing breakfast—but I am sinking deeper into sleep. My morning is someone else’s dawn, and by the time I open my eyes, the sun has already climbed high into the sky.
Breakfast becomes lunch. Lunch merges into dinner. Time loses its identity. Meals happen when hunger strikes, and hunger itself seems to follow no fixed schedule. It’s a strange, floating existence, where day and night blur into each other, and the rhythm of life is out of sync with the world around me. Days slip away quietly—sometimes I lose track of what day it is. Hours melt into hours, and before I know it, another week has passed. There’s a peculiar kind of freedom in this life without a routine, but there’s also a quiet emptiness that creeps in. Without a sense of structure, without a goal to work towards, every day starts to feel the same—repetitive, meaningless, like a song stuck on the same note.
It’s not that I don’t want to change. Often, I tell myself, “Tomorrow, I will sleep early. I’ll wake up early. I’ll start a new routine.” But then night arrives, and once again, I find myself staring at the screen, scrolling endlessly. The cycle repeats, over and over. There’s a sense of guilt that builds up—the feeling of wasting time, of letting life slip away—but that guilt never seems strong enough to shake me out of this pattern. The willpower to change feels like it’s drifting further and further away.
This is a life without routine, without order, without purpose. It’s a life where days and nights blend into one another, where sleep comes at odd hours, where meals have no fixed time, and where the world’s clock seems to tick on a different beat than mine. It’s a strange existence—both free and lost at the same time. And as I write this, I wonder: when will I find the strength to break free from this cycle? When will I unplug from the endless scrolling, shut my eyes at the right time, and wake up with the world instead of against it?
Until then, I continue to drift—waiting for a change that seems just out of reach.
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