Kerouac Dreams

As soon as I finish jerking off to my Jack Kerouac style fantasies, I am suddenly aware that for every good Samaritan I may meet on the road, there is equal if not greater chance I will meet a seedy truck driver hellbent on sodomizing me in the bathroom of a shady rest stop.

Oh, to be an American Gypsy. To forge my own destiny, down the beaten path. 

Sighing, I return to the present, where as much as I romanticized the weary traveler’s journey, it remains a folk dream.

My favorite story wasn’t one of rags to riches but rather the riches to rags story of Chris McCandless. Maybe when my literary teacher handed me Jon Krakauer’s book, Into The Wild, only a day after I had called her a bitch, she hoped it would spark my interest and bring me to die in the middle of fucking nowhere. It certainly brought me to dream of the wild expanse and freedom it may hold.

And so, as I hear for what must be the millionth time, “If you don’t like it here you can leave!”, a piece of me walks out that door and down the road, towards the wild unknown. As I post things on The Facebook such as, “When you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose,” I lose sight of the fact that maybe my fellow vagabonds might not enjoy the company of my macbook pro and I, just on the journey for the story. In fact, I think the presence of my Macbook would heavily increase my chances at being robbed and left for dead in a shallow grave.

Beat Blogger stabbed following his dream to find something.

Popular Vaguebooker found beaten and broken near truck stop.  

The notion of running into sodomizing truck drivers or envious fellow travelers always settles me back into reality. From there, the list only grows of reasons a vision quest might just, for lack of a better word, suck. It has been ages since I last got lost for hours in the woods. While they still call for my footprints, I can’t help but not forget that what they offer in solace they don’t make up for in electricity. Unless my plan were to risk the urban jungle, I would not be able to find wi-fi hotspots for much of my journey. How will my trip make it to The Instagram?

There is a desire to catch a train, as it pulls out. I want to be a boxcar kid. Railing my way into the rolling plains. Are they even still there? Before I even commit to my reckless dream, finding out whether there is wilderness left to discover might be on the preparation list.

Yes, I hear your call, Wild, and my feet yearn to shuffle along you, Road, but will it be worth it? Am I assured the enlightenment I have always accused you of holding? Will my privilege be checked? 

I only dare brave the long journey if my worries are assuaged.

Placate me. Tell me I am incandescent and needed. 

So, I sit, thoroughly pleasuring my thoughts of being outside of my comfort zone. Moving past all of THIS property I feel so dearly attached to. And the wind rolls through the street, whispering for me to join it.

The wind rolls through the city, calling to lost souls like mine. Enticing them to join it. On The Road. 

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