Wednesday Morning; thinking about life.

It does get sticky at times. I've wondered for a long time what this may all be about. Well, it's about everything you can think of, and then some. It shouldn't have been my way of life, but within my heart, I can only find faint resistance, which also is always diminishing. I cannot, for the life of me, pinpoint the specific event that turned the tide to bring me up to this point, but I cannot assume any regrets, as my actions were my own, free will or not. The events of a life, written in plain words. I would have, at a young age, laughed at such a notion, but now I know a little more. What can one assume to understand about life when the whole future lies ahead, sneering at the victim who approaches it without fail? I also, at times, think of the things I did—some mentionable, some not. As I grow a little weary and as time brings me to acknowledge it, I pretend to hold an air of importance about myself, but deep within, I know that too is in vain. Such despair and contradiction within one's heart, and with only a single refuge—that is the significance of these words. The absurdists tell me not to give in to despair from such contradictions and that there is truly something to hope for. Hope is such a thing that I have to truly fight for it with all my blood and bone. Aware of the fact that there is only so much or so little that can be done with this body of flesh, that too alone, I sit here writing as the morning sun makes its way above the horizon. This has been about change, as all my writing has, in some form, been, and to truly change, as suggested in millions of stories, requires a sacrifice. A sacrifice not of something external (virgins rejoice ;) but of something internal, something that is a part of you, maybe even the most essential part of you. I cannot assume to know what that essential part is and what makes me me. Such philosophizing is beyond me, but this is how I feel on this yellow morn: What is all this life about?