Returning empty handed.

I can't get over the way that my room smells like gasoline. I live in it. I sleep in it. I have a constant fear of lighting up a cigarette, only to see my entire life turn to ashes. I don't get out much. If I did, maybe I wouldn't care as much. For years I was never home. My bed stayed made, my clothes neatly folded and the posters and my writing on the wall just hung there unloved and unappreciated.

I'm out finding love. I'm out finding myself.

But then I return empty handed. My clothes are soaked and my shoes are worn in the soles. That familiar smell of gasoline returns. It makes me cough in my sleep. It brings fear again. Why am I here? For what purpose? I'm back to my roots but they're unaccepting of who I am.

Pete Townshend is on my wall telling me to leave. Trent Reznor. Bob Dylan. Eric "Slowhand" Clapton is asking me what happened to my guitar. I tell him "It got hit by a car when I left in in the street in New York city." But I'm making excuses.

I gave up the things that I love just to go out and make a name for myself. I don't even care anymore. I don't want to be some rock star. I don't want to be some writer. I have no goals, only questions. I need to find myself. But instead of going after what I know I love, I instead chase a dream. I chase something, someone that I could POSSIBLY love but don't in the moment. And what do I do in defeat?

I retreat. To a fucking bedroom with imaginary friends that could set ablaze at any moment. My life would be nothing. More nothing than it already is. And those posters that are on my walls are calling me crazy, because they are damned to live on my walls or to be taken down and thrown away. I'm just like them: Two-dimensional and just as disposable.

Deep inside of me I know what I want to do: Change the world. The problem is, I don't know how I'm going to do it.