To the BIG FUCKING PROBLEM, which is, undoubtedly, colossal doom, some calamitous event.
In fact, the calamitous events that I think of when I think of calamitous events are not even events which I can write here. Because even though I know better, I don't wish to somehow summon them.
Of course, linked tightly up with my nature regarding such events is the equally unmentionable dreams of my youth, withered and battered as they are. I haven't yet taken them seriously as I might have wanted to, or given the concept of time a good hard kick in the ass.
Making excuses for things is a motto for a lot of people and for about 2 years I've been trying to NOT live making excuses. However, I've also stopped living in a lot of ways, dried up and dessicated as I've become, I haven't forgotten the wonder that used to drive my daily life, the "indefatiguable wonder" that I read enthralled a young Vincent Van Gogh as well, though it just so happens that whatever I read lays itself over my life like a well pressed outfit.
And I've bought and sold things here, gentlemen and ladies, and I've found myself sucked into the adrenaline race so that I think every moment matters for all of the big decisions that have yet to be made or could be made, and maybe I'm wrong, just wrong, because sticking oneself down into the cracks, down near the lint, and grime, and rust, well, it just doesn't allow too much perspective to seep in, and pretty soon, I've masked myself with plaster dried, and I've found the old allusions are all tacky and wrought up in disdain.
Pray with me please, and I mean that figuratively.
