Maybe I should be like Bukowski. Without care, pounding the liquor whenever I want, going bar to bar whenever I want. And nobody can say a word to me about it all because there is nobody.
But what I would do, instead of moving to the city like Charles, I would move so fucking far out in the country that nobody will ever find me.
And I would write. Write every day for hours with nothing else to do except what I want to do. Hunt, fish, train my dog, shoot guns and bows, and watch the morning sky turn bright and watch the evening sky turn black.
All of the talk becomes way too much, the humanity pulling at you and pulling at you. The modern world means nothing. Nothing in the world means anything. Because it's all fake and nothing that you are worrying about, that you are worrying about right now, means a damn thing.
Lying there, pondering how many days you have left, none of this mindless, useless shit will matter. Just the person that you could have been, the people you could have loved more, the goals you should have reached but were afraid of, the taking the time to see the world right in front of you.
I used to be something
And when I was something, I thought that I wasn’t
Now, I wish I knew that I was something