Sometimes... Sometimes I wonder if this is it, if this life I am currently leading is the type of life I have always wanted to lead, only different, because those lives, those times, those experiences, those stories... well, those stories belong to their owners.

This story belongs to me.

It's different from what I imagined, if this is it. Maybe that's because we are different people interpreting things differently, or if because this isn't it. This isn't my remodeled storybook, famous novel life that I've always longed for.

How can that be? When I am doing something not new, not daring, not unusual and amazing, all of those qualities are new to my life.
And then, maybe... it's just different from what I imagined, or from the books and lives I've decided to model mine after, because I can't make up my mind. I want to be and to do and to live in so many way, I'm having trouble deciphering when I've completed one of those, if I have. I'm not talking only about milestones. Little things count, too. The little things always count.

I think, in the end, I want to have lived the life of an artist. Not any particular type of artist, but in the wholly creative way of being an artist. I want to push all boundaries. I want that life that is out of touch, that is constantly new, that is obscure and fascinating.

There are aspects, bits and pieces, of the many types of lives I want to live, that I have had a taste of. I just need to expound on them. I need more of it all.

Because, I've collected and decorated with antiques. I have retro dishes and I buy organic food, drink a cup of tea a day. I draw designs and sketch my teachers face in class. I read important plays and major philosophical ideas. I take trips on trains in India, lying in the dark, as everything I have never known rushes by. I bake in the springtime with the doors open and no shoes on. I ride on sailboats and play the piano. I dance at parties and on stage. I attend lectures on child labor and run on the beach. I water ski, and can snow ski, too. I celebrate Christmas, and Maha Shivaratri, too. I shop at Urban Outfitters, my mother's closet, and J. Crew. I would rather walk around with no clothes on, but I love old fashioned silk robes and elegant updos. I listen to John Coltrane, the Beatles, celtic music, and Explosions in the Sky. I'm learning French, Hindi and research Eastern beliefs and celebrations. I love folklore and science fiction. I take midnight bike rides and wake up early to see the sunrise.
Yet, despite all of this diversity, all of these chances and opportunities and a lifetime of doing wonderful things that I couldn't be more grateful of having and doing...

will I always be Sal Paradise and never Dean Moriarty?

Perhaps all of the striving provides great insight into my personality. Perhaps not. I leave myself open to all opportunities except for those that compromise my well being. I surround myself with the creative, mad type, and those that just... burn.

And still... I know that it is all inside me, this turmoil...?
I know, as well as I can, who I am and what I stand for.
That doesn't explain what I'm searching for, which I clearly am.

And it never changes.
Every time I lie back on that top bunk of a train that is barreling down the railway tracks, it is dark out and I don't know anything.

I don't where I am or who I am or where I am going.
But I know that if I drank a case of you, I would still be on my feet.