His name was Dillion Green and he was a painter.
He awoke one night to find himself terribly alone – no children, no wife, no relatives. All he had left were his paintings that no one wanted. Before, he had loved painting – the spark of creation once inhabited his soul, but now was lost. Where had all his passion gone? Once a young man filled with ambition, he was now a shell of his former self lacking the creativity of his youth.
Here was a man without direction, going with the tide to where ever it decided to take him. A river stone tumbling with the current, not knowing its destination.
After a few moments of debating whether to get up or not, Green stood up and walked over to his bathroom. The halls were filled with the light of the morning sun as it poured in through the open curtains.
He hated the sun.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Disheveled, unshaven – he looked like a mess.
I realized that this was exactly what happened to me just a day ago. I pondered to myself whether I should continue...
On one hand, this could be just what I needed – therapy for my lack of ambition and my unhealthy sleeping patterns. This would be good for me I thought and I continued writing.