I'd end up somewhere, or I'd end up nowhere. I'd stink, that much is for sure. Would I be able to make enough money to survive doing odd jobs, or washing dishes for scraps? Would I have to bathe in rivers, risking pneumonia and worse?
Would there ever be any turning back?
No, I don't think so.
One thing's for sure. I'm not Sherwood Anderson. I'm not going walk down the railroad tracks towards the big city and become an acclaimed writer after middle age has just fed me up with everything. I'm still not sure I'll live till middle age. I'm still not sure I care.
Oh, yeah. And to all the people I'm alienating, either Fuck you, or I'm sorry. I forget which. Maybe one for some and the other for others, or a little bit of both for all. Probably not, though. I'm a nice guy, really. I'm just selfish because I want to live. Or because I've forgotten what it is to live.
"I wonder... when I sing along with you if anything could ever feel this real forever... if anything could ever feel this good again. The only thing I'll ever ask of you, you gotta promise not to stop when I say when."
I think those words apply to my friends. Even when I'm feeling like I want to be left alone, even when I say when, I need them not to go away. Maybe that's selfish.