Skip Steps

Throughout my young life I wondered at my older brother's consistency. There seemed no reason for it; for waking up early and going to bed on time every night. For starting the day with exercise and a shower, for studying before doing any other activities. At these I wondered, but only halfheartedly.
I was what you would call soulless. I wasn't a being of thought; I was a being of impulse. From dawn to dusk I charged at whatever my temporal, temporary, desire was. Mostly games, the internet, and friends. Whenever what I sought was unavailable I would grumble and wait stagnantly. I was very impatient and always waiting.
“Stagnant” was my lifestyle. I was skipping to what I wanted most with such speed that I ended up ruining that which I skipped for. I didn't care. I would do it again and again and again every day, but eventually even I found I wasn't immune to the moments of reflection life thrusts upon us.
One day I was asked a blunt question by someone irrevocably close to me. My father queried at what kept me going. Was it the next great game? What about after that? It was then I realized I had no purpose. Furthermore, I was ruining what I had desired. My life was horrid as a person, and if not for my loving family and shining examples I would have come to this realization and have dwelt in despair, utterly humbling as it was.
It was at this time I really began to ponder my brother's non-impulsive lifestyle. I think it is only now I near fully understand why he had such consistency in his regime. I am reminded of a poster in my English teachers classroom titled “recipe for a good day.” While I will not relate the ingredients it listed I wish to use the perfectly phrased analogy it contained.
All of my brothers morning, afternoon, and evening actions were ingredients he mixed for a good day, and he always did them in order like a master chef making a cake. You couldn't rush to the end first or you would end up with a large mess; Disgusting to eat it, but also to live it. All of those days he strove to work and make perfect (though always fell short) were part of his preparations for something else, something I could only call his purpose. Slowly but surely he was preparing himself day by day, instruction on top of instruction, for his goals; his desires; his motives.
I watch now as he has achieved, succeeded, or surpassed all he originally set out to do, and yet still lives and plans on as an unstoppable force, and I likewise wonder at my own potential, still newly awakened. I wonder at my own consistent recipes for my own good days.