Last night was kind of a rough night. Danielle used to call it “male PMS.” It may not be quite as regular as the chick version, but the results are always strikingly similar.
I wouldn’t exactly call it depression and I wouldn’t exactly call it loneliness…maybe more of a general malaise, or a low-grade frustration with life. It never really makes sense…and it’s rarely attached to any particular cause. But it’s usually characterized by me, in a bad mood, wanting to escape. Unfortunately, I’m kind of in the middle of my most complicated escape attempt to date. So where do I go from there?
In most cases I just want to get away from everything and everyone and do some good solid Goth style brooding (minus the creepy makeup and hair and clothing…and coffee…and clove cigarettes…and bad poetry…and the strange conformity to one given look that goes beyond any conformity that the Abercrombie mob has ever had. But otherwise JUST like that).
And it usually culminates in me getting up suddenly and going for a long, long run, by myself. But with a heavy pack full of tech I’m not very well equipped to go out for a long run these days.
Instead, I just started walking barefoot in the dark until I came across a neighborhood bookstore (my favorite places to kill time). While I was in there I started reading the preface to the original “scroll” version of “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac. It was just published this year, fifty years after the heavily edited version first saw print. (Incidentally, “On the Road” is the only other book besides “Travels with Charley” that I considered bringing with me on this trip. If not for lack of space I would have brought both.)
It was nice having something interesting to read and escape into (metaphorically of course, I would never have fit INSIDE the book, it was much to small) but reading the preface about how he went about writing “On the Road” only really served to desperately make me want to write a book. So, I guess, on the whole, the experience was kind of a wash. I still left the bookstore in a funk.
Before anyone starts to freak out I should say; I’m feeling much better today. I’m finally on the road (I didn’t mean for that pun to happen but I like it, so I’m going to leave it and pretend it was on purpose…shoot I just gave away the truth.) again and I get to stare out the train window at the endless blur of green in upstate New York and listen to the wet sounding snores boil gentle out of the throat of the fat man sitting behind me. PLUS I got to write a little bit last night before I went to sleep (um…and right now, I guess, if you want to get technical).
So, life’s good again after a minor hiccup. I wouldn’t have written about it but I feel like I owe everyone as close to the whole truth as I can represent on a page a day and since I experience so much cool stuff it’s only fair that a tiny little negative sneak in there on occasion. Regardless, this was far and away the toughest story to write so far.
Okay, I’m on a train on my way to Illinois to knock off #30 and #33 this weekend and hopefully it’s not too late to find myself a firefly. Wish me luck! And on that note:
Don’t let me stop you.
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