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Just hanging on to life as days crumble into the dark dust of the night. Its not the loneliness that drives me crazy, its probably the norms of the society that I try to follow – but fail miserably each time. These norms that form the very basis of human interaction take precedence over friendships that have developed over years, over relationships supposedly forged in metal. It drives me to desperation. Drastic steps to fill the void. The travel to different countries and cities forms the interlude that keeps the cycle from breaking; its what keeps me from disappearing into the sunset. Thoreau said, ‘Most men live lives of quiet desperation’ and I wonder how different am I.

As the sky turns crimson in anger at the setting sun, I sit here in my darkened room with thoughts of Thoreau and McCandless and Bukowski and I wonder what greatness beseeches those men in death that they couldn’t achieve during their lives. What drives us to the brink of abandon yet pulls us back? Why wasn’t McCandless ever pulled back?

All but specks of our imagination running wild into open fields – chasing winds and diving into valleys, afraid of falling, climbing the heights, teetering over the edge looking down into the abyss, heart fluttering, afraid of death, sights on the goal, pushing as hard as you can, what drives us? The challenge, a point to prove, but to whom? To those who have long forgotten you, but those mocking eyes still pierce your heart and as Bukowski would put it:

“Amazing how grimly we hold on to our misery, the energy we burn fueling our anger. Amazing how one moment, we can be snarling like a beast, then a few moments later, forgetting what or why. Not hours of this, or days, or months, or years of this… But decades. Lifetimes completely used up, given over to the pettiest rancor and hatred. Finally, there is nothing here for death to take away. “