Exhaustion breeds an elevated form of emotion and creativity. I know and I don’t know that through this song, Lamb of God, the Potomac River, the Appalachian Mountains, running, yoga, alcohol, working, contemplating, and moving through the maze of this shit we experience as life, that I will come out on top, and I will have fucking battle scars and broken and bleeding fingernails from clawing my way up. This is ugly and beautiful and disgusting and glorious and I am ready to squirm and shake my way through all pain and the pleasure this existence has to offer. I will sow and I will reap and I will be cheated and defeated and brought back up again like winters hash down the fruits in our gardens and spring returns them to a state of productivity and nutrients. I’m not talking about making gains or doing a tough mudder or getting an A on a test or landing a job or graduating or getting a certificate or being what the fuck ever and having a career and kids and a family and fucking life thats “yours” and your shit is under control. I’m talking about when I take that final breath I can say I fucking did it all and I did it freely and fully and I tried to nurture myself and others and help build a part of an energy structure that will carry the will to live and care in other people. Even with the bad stuff, those harsh winters we put ourselves through, that stuff is only a part of the freedom to choose and care about the choice, the decisions are ours to bear. I always said that “One day, you will learn, I’ll be better.” I didn’t know before, but I know now, that I was always talking to myself and the song remains the same and so does the saying. Circling and cycling through it all, I will watch where I’m going and remember where I have been as I sail to those unknown horizons on seas uncharted with no north star for direction because direction doesn’t matter, it’s never fucking mattered. I only have the moon of my own soul pulling the tides of my own heart under a canoe dug out from wood and blood and sweat and fear. It’s that. It’s that fucking chain of thoughts you have in that canoe as you sail to that unknown, alone. Fuck anybody who tries to belittle me or make me feel like I am not becoming everything that I want to be and all that I represent of my insides. Fuck anyone who doesn’t care about everything, because you know you do. Because you don’t want to die and you don’t know what happens. Faith is false. It’s all unknown. And fuck anybody who’s weak enough to let others dictate how you sail. All of my deepest love to those who help and love and care, not just about me, but in a general sense, the ones who want to keep the funk alive, the ones who feel the very deepest and most philosophical and calm, the people who carry the ocean within the body of a bird sailing above the canoe as a thought. When will you learn, Tricia. We are inevitabely at war with ourselves. Peace is in the solitary solemnity of the free and the brave. You’ll get there. You’re getting there.