I don’t know why I continue to bother any longer. My wife resents me, I’m suspicious my son does as well, and all I get is a burning frustration that every story I’ve written has been written poorly. This has always been my greatest fear, that I find myself old and beyond my prime, looking back at everything I’ve sacrificed and wondering if I have squandered dozens of opportunities to find success at something other than fiction. I still believe I’m smart, intelligent, knowledgeable, but I realize now, only now, that for years I’ve lost faith in the belief that propelled me, with excitement, as a youth – that existence is a course of possibilities and that by focus and dedication, by constant struggle, the will can pull its desired possibility into reality. And now when I think of this I see only failed attempts, mired in inability to try hard enough, constant distractions I allowed myself to be strayed by. My wife is cold and spiteful, my son distant, closed off, and the worst sinking feeling is the thought that I too resent them for having come between me and my dream. All I see are mistakes, jobs I should’ve quit to spend ten hours daily typing, misguided priorities putting a pretty house and furnishings before the dedication I knew I needed to put into my writing.
I’m going to leave. For the first time in 20 years I am going to abandon everyone who loves me, everything I know, all of my comforts and everything I resent. I am going to hitchhike, I am going to blog the road. I am finally going to let myself drown in misery, drink, and the dream which has always haunted me.