I don’t give a fuck. I mean, I don’t just give one, meaningless fuck. I give many, way too many fucks. It feels me with anger and frustration. All I see are these dark, blurry images and words that come to my mind and blind me from the world. Ironically, I know things will change (they always do, some times more dramatically than others; yet they always do.) And I won’t give a fuck when that happens. Literally not a single little fuck.
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” wrote Dylan Thomas. And I rage, as if life was fleeing my flesh and the blaze of fury would bring it back in. I rage. I fucking do. I go all out. All in. “If you’re going to try, go all the way. / There is no other feeling like that. / You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire,” wrote Bukowski. It burns within me, this fire. And it burns me, the whole of me. And I burn them. The others. Whether I want it or not.