On the Road....still

I am kicking around the idea of ending this blog.
Flipping the idea over with my foot to see how it lies, to see if it is a good one.
My goal was 100 posts.  This will be post number 78.
I started writing February 29 of last year.
I thought to close it on the same day....funny thing is....February 29th won't exist again until 2016.
Is this a sign?
Do I need to keep going until then?
I've been reading back over my old posts.
I had so much to say then.  Now it seems I don't.
However, this is the nature of creativity, art, love...
There are times when it seems the initial juice is all dried up.
I look around, and the lake has become a dry, cracked bowl of elephant skin.
Is this the same illusion?
Probably.

I'll not decide now. 

It's just that I am realizing how many limitations this blogging business comes with.
I can't write everything.
I offend people.
I am afraid of my own stream of consciousness.  By nature, it has no filter.
I don't want the responsibility of consideration of others.
I want to say everything, and I can't.
I am a beligerent teenager.

Jack Kerouac

I am crouched in the corner, thick black eyeliner, with my headphones playing The Cure.

Andrew and I went on a date to the movies.
They played a preview.
It was Jack Kerouac's On The Road.
It made me miss the life of spontaneous drugs, sex and poetry.
I sat in my seat, salivating, missing the wild hair and whiskey-sick stomach.
Missing the road stretched in front of me, a cigarette billowing out the cracked window.
Back then I was separate, and nothing tethered me.

I know better.
My brain knows better.
But then I hear the line:

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

 

I used to be mad in that romantic way, in that beautiful destruction, and Jack Kerouac was my muse from 50 years away.

And I ache for that freedom.

The only one keeping me from it is myself.

I know this.

 

I know drugs and alcohol are a dead end.

I know starvation is a dead end.

I know reckless hitch-hiking looses it's romance and lands me still alone.

I know .... I know ... I know .... will never reveal magic.

The magic is not in the knowing.

It cannot be found by going backwards.

So on I write, perhaps until 2016.

I will try to know less.