Last night I walked alone from the gay district of Bourbon Street to where it lets out at Canal Street. I got a shot of bourbon, a couple kamikaze shots, a couple shots of Jager, a shot of whiskey, a shot of vodka, a daiquiri, and a hand-grenade. I saw boobs, pussy, and ass. I met a beautiful girl named Sophia who I’ll probably never see again. Then I drove, watching the sky grow lighter until it was morning, and when I finally made it to my house, my room-mates were just waking up.
I love experiences like this. They’re like the tuning fork for my soul. They remind me that I’m different than the people I’m around, that I see things, feel things, experience things that nobody I know ever will. I wonder if all aspiring artists feel that way?
I know I’ve messed up a lot in my life, and I know there’s a lot in my life that I shouldn’t have had to deal with, but I’ve walked up Bourbon street at Mardi Gras, drank Guinness in Dublin, danced with Spanish sisters in Madrid, stood on the Eiffel Tower, heard the chimes of Big Ben, peered over the edge of the Grand Canyon. I know the phantom pains of lost loved ones, and the constant sting of heartbreak. I’ve experienced more in 22 years than most people do in 100.
That realization scares the shit out of me. But it also reminds me that I’ve got more places to go, more things to see, more things to accomplish. “Remember thou art mortal,” those thoughts whisper, “then go forth and face the terrible burden of Time.” There’s a lesson in these thoughts somewhere, I just don’t know what it is.
