The stale, winter apartment air filters through my nose, entering my once-mighty lungs. The powerful, lean frame has become softer, older and scarred. The scars on the outside seem to heal stronger, but the internal damage keeps leaking and flooding the empty cavity of my soul. My heart is somewhere in that lake – drowning – just splashing around waiting for one pathetic donut of a life raft to stumble into my world. The off-white, beige-personality girls pass through my life – so many faces on that digital screen – without leaving so much as a pin-size scar. Nothing worth remembering. No one worth foregoing the precious sleep of life for.

A migraine begs my skull to cave, and depression begs my heart to stop. My wandering ambition is just happy to watch words vomit onto the page, hoping it can steel itself against the tide of indifference and neglect. The multitude of missed first steps and false starts shake an already-wobbling confidence. The bravado and brash nature of too many yesterday’s is lost in the blizzard of aged emotions.  No path emerges, but the words look like a shovel and warm clothes. It’s time to start digging out.