Oh How I Long For That Great Exaltation of My Soul

Well I can't quite put my finger on it, but this or that keeps slipping between me and some forward-thinking; however do I wish this all to just dissipate into clear pictures.

I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking out. Nonetheless... I will as you this: You ever just feel like you have to stop and ask yourself, "What the fuck?" EVERY. FUCKING. DAY. No doubt there are a few of you out there happy to hear me say that. Fine, fine, fine.
What the fuck... have I gotten myself into now? What the fuck does this mean, does that mean, does he mean, does she mean? Then you get so fed up with the lack of answers that you turn the phrase from "what the fuck" to "Fuck it." You say, "fuck it" and then you do something. Something, something, somethings all the time that do or don't fuck up your day. Your day; every dog has his day. When was mine? I don't care. I'm not pissed, necessarily. I'm not sad, nor happy, nor even resentful. I'm just saying, "what the fuck" because everything in my life has been turned upside down these past few months and I am realizing what it is beginning to mean for me in the future.

Hollow, baby. I'm an old tree long since dead. Little creatures (emotions, assuming this is a metaphoric of sorts) crawl around and rearrange me however they want, and I let them. No more green, just a soggy trunk to keep me up in the rain. Whatever.

I suppose this isn't my usual brand of writing. Very big deal. I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore. Nothing has come my way that means any bit of ease or relaxation. I mean, I know life is supposed to be hard, but what the fuck, man? Everytime it seems like one or two things are in order or damn sure on the way to being so, I realize something I've forgotten or someone I didn't consider and then the shit hits the fan. It hits the fan, and then everybody knows. Well, my opinion, as of late, is to say fuck everybody. We are all out for ourselves, above all else, right? Why squander away good youthful years on pain-in-the-ass endevours that end up beating you anyways? For love of the game, you say? Idiot.

Then again... I don't really know who this guy is that keeps typing these words that you have been reading. I don't really know if he's just tired and down or beaten and broken, or if he's a little jaded and a little afraid to let life take its part within his. Who could know, if not me? He's right here, and yet he feels a million miles away. Maybe it's only 700. Or maybe it's two feet from the bed behind him; a place where he can get a little rest with a little sanity coming back when he gets up in the morning.

By the way, did I tell you I am soon to leave for my trip? It is tentatively within the next two months before I go. I am never more ready than right now. I just need to get back to myself; back to him, and look ahead a little, and look behind a little softer.

Since I've nearly passed out atop my desk, I see myself fit for sleeping now. You didn't need to know that, but Jesus and everyone loves those who are curious and giving. I give you these ridiculous words, and you give yourselves the comfort of knowing that whatever is bothering you is almost never as bad as what I've been saying as of late.

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...Dig it?

C.A. Dominick