The worlds my oyster, a hotel rooms a prison cell. (Day 29)

I wound up sleeping a lot today. I rarely sleep all that much, I've always been pretty lousy at it. Any small noise really keeps me up all night, and I've never really understood why.

Why sleeping feels like the enemy, why being unconscious feels like I'm going to miss something important or worthwhile. And why so often being awake feels like a letdown when nothing eventful happens.

What happens at the end of the line? If it like a train, and you just get off and thats it? Do you know where to go from there? Does what you did in this life dictate what direction you take in the next?

I feel like a lot of the time I'm just drifting through life without a purpose or direction, and I feel like if I found one, I wouldn't have any idea on what to do when I got there or had an inkling. How do you know?

They say your job becomes you, and you become your job. Something dies, and somethings born, but what you are reflects in what your job is, and I think that terrifies me the most. I don't ever want to be one of those sad old fuckers that has nothing else to offer, nothing else to talk about besides their job and how Rick from Accounting is a no nothing putz or how I could really go somewhere if my boss who knows nothing would notice me just enough to give me a different title for the same meaning of shit life has become.

Where I no longer get excited about movies, or get to old to go to shows and sing along. I dread the day looming when I can't get too drunk and roam around in public anymore.

I dread the day of irrelevance, and the worst part is one day you become forcibly irrelevant (unless your name is Martin Scorsese) and you become that creepy gaffe still trying to hold onto something that never really belonged to you anyway.

How do you leave your mark on a beach? Theres always tides coming to wash it away, no matter how deep and defined you tried to make it. Eventually you're carried out to sea to mingle with the dolphins and grains of sand.

I'm jealous of Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Bukowski...jealous of all of 'em. No matter what happens, they won't ever be forgotten, maybe just overlooked. What they did mattered, and they lived every moment of their lives, and they lived it in a way that made others want to live it with them.

Until tomorrow.