Transitions

He lurches now upon rising. Not headlong, but listing side to side as if he is maneuvering slanted decks on a ship tossed on rough seas. The primal instinct to find the bathroom remains but what to do with ANY of the plumbing--his own or the ceramic fixtures--eludes him. I am not what I used to be. I am tentative and tired. I don't explode into joy and happiness; I peer around the corner from the other room and peek at it, study it, consider it. I can't find my peace place. Home is lonely and sorrowful. Away is difficult and tiring. Travel is weariness, not adventure. Where oh where has my adventure song gone:!