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Two forty nine in the morning and I’m mourning the loss of my motivation. I can barely be dragged from my bed. I can barely be forced to bed. My routine drags like a child’s teddy bear. Dirt stained and loved with indifferent adoration. Beat up and falling apart, but still held close for comfort every night. With the strike of a match dry smoke fills the air and I inhale deeply savoring the scent before lighting a candle before cultural idols. Blowing out the match to avoid burning my fingers, I try to think a thought or two that could add some profound meaning to this day. Nothing comes to mind and I strike a bell to announce my presence to any god who might listen: I’m here! I’m too tired of thinking to maintain consciousness, but the exhaustion that usually pushes me through my day has slacked off. Why is it without exhaustion I can’t sleep through the entire night? Why is it the lack of exhaustion is equally exhausting? And why do this useless thoughts run on repeat as if they held some meaningful answers to an oracle’s questions? My motivation has been buried and exhumed. It was lit in a funeral pyre and after two weeks of reflection set free in the running water. And still it’s ghost troubles me as I wander away from it, meandering without its purpose I find myself passively falling into routines that drag, and I hope my child-god will still love me when I am dirt stained and scarred.