DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

My cat is my alarm clock. Not metaphorically — literally. She’s the first thing I hear every morning, howling like she’s been abandoned in a void, despite living a life of uninterrupted luxury.

There’s no snooze button, no soft chime, no graceful start. Just claws on the floor, judgment in her eyes, and a relentless demand for breakfast.

So I get up. Not because I’m ready to greet the day, but because feline terrorism leaves no room for negotiation.

I feed her. I grind the coffee. These are the sacred rites of passage — the steps that transform me from a disoriented gremlin into someone who can form sentences.

If anything delays this ritual, I take it personally.
Why are you playing with my emotions? Who told you this was cool?

Once caffeine levels are in the green and nicotine’s holding the line — check, check — and the cat has retreated to whatever sun-drenched corner she’s claimed, I begin the real work: protecting my peace.

And look — I didn’t arrive at this approach because I’m naturally serene or some monk-in-disguise.

I got here because of the life I’ve lived. Because of the dents.
Because there are days when my mind goes rogue and starts offering me metaphorical jackets with buckles on the back.

“Give that a new coat,” it says. “It’s very nice. Leather straps. Fastens in the back. Do you want a new coat, Mr. Khan?”

And I answer like I’m seriously weighing the options.

“If you’re good, we’ve got lime Jello for you… You like lime, don’t you?”

And lime Jello is the truth. You don’t mess with lime.
Last time I cut up? They gave me lemon. No one likes lemon Jello.

That’s just mean. Downright mean.

So yeah, I’ve had to learn how to manage my mind, not just for peace — but for survival.

Calm isn’t some Instagram aesthetic for me. It’s a lifeline.
A way to keep the louder voices quiet and the darkness at bay.

That’s why I keep close something Alan Watts once said:

“Muddy water is best cleared by leaving it alone.
What we see as a clear mind is not the result of frantic activity.
It is clear as the morning, not because we scrubbed the sky, but because we left it alone.”

That line sticks with me because it echoes something ancient — something every major religion or philosophy seems to touch on:

The idea of inner stillness.
Of knowing yourself before engaging with the noise of the world.

In Sufism, Rumi wrote:

“There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.”

In Buddhism, from the Dhammapada:

“Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.”

And from the Bible, in Psalms:

“Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

Different traditions. Same thread.
Peace isn’t something you chase. It’s something you uncover — when you get quiet enough.

That’s what I’m after each morning.

Some days it’s just coffee and silence.
Other days, a bit of journaling or staring into the void like it owes me money.

The practice doesn’t matter as much as the pause. The space.
The reminder that I get to choose how I show up — even if some days, that choice takes everything I’ve got.

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But some mornings, I skip it.
The ritual. The silence. The pause.

Maybe I oversleep.
Maybe I pick up my phone before I breathe.
Maybe I think, “I’m fine, I don’t need it today.”

That’s the trap.
(Cue Admiral Ackbar voice: “It’s a trap!” — and yes, it absolutely plays in my head every time I skip my rituals like I’m going to be fine.)

Because when I skip my rituals, life turns to quicksand.
And no one’s coming to save me.

There’s no helpful rope, no dramatic movie rescue.
Just me, slowly sinking, pretending I can claw my way out of the churn.

I’m three seconds from a panic attack — except it doesn’t always look like panic.

Sometimes it’s quiet.
Like holding your breath without realizing it.
Like being trapped inside a breathless gasp, chained in place by something invisible.

A prison with no walls, but no doors either.

The anxiety doesn’t fade. It just lingers. Constant hum, just under the skin.
Everything feels urgent. Every noise too loud. Every thought too fast.

I forget what I was doing mid-sentence. I lose time. I react instead of respond.

And the worst part?
I can’t tell if it’s me or the world — and at that point, it doesn’t matter.

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But I have to remember — the power to escape is within.

Not in some motivational-poster way.
Not in the “just breathe and manifest your peace” kind of way.

I mean that literally.

The same rituals I sometimes skip — the breath, the stillness, the silence, the coffee, the pause — they’re the tools.

The rope in the quicksand.
The key to the prison that looks like it has no door.

I have to choose to reach for them. Even when I don’t feel like it.
Especially then.

It’s not about fixing everything in that moment.

It’s about reclaiming one inch of space.
One breath. One clear thought.

Enough to remind myself that I’m not just a body riding out the chaos —
I’m a person with the ability to shift, to respond, to say:
“Not today. We’re not drowning today.”

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A new pot sputters.
Serenity in a sip.

The cat breathes easy on her perch beside me, no longer screaming like the world’s on fire.
She’s fed. I’m fed — in my own way.

My eyes open each day at 5 a.m. Not by choice, but by necessity.
That’s when the mind starts. That’s when the first storm rolls in from the backcountry of my brain.

I wade through the madness in the regions of my mind, step by step, breath by breath.
No armor. Just ritual.

This — the coffee, the quiet, the stillness — this is how I survive myself.

I use these rituals to breathe.
To feel.
To live.

It’s 6 a.m.

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