Burnt Journal
Motivation does not come easily anymore. Dragging myself from troubled dreams and fitful sleep has developed into a battle no one wins. Once I am up a quick look at the bed provides the first painful reminder that I am alone. From here it can only get worse. Five short steps, a turn of the knob and the water begins to cascade from an oversized showerhead purchased for the pleasure of the woman who once cherished the little things I did for her. The water washes not only the soap from my hair and body, but the nightmares that have filled each erratic night of sleep these past nineteen months.
