Hobo

Recently I've been hitting some turbulence in my life, and my mind has been turning itself over like a flap jack. I know this is the age when most people are finding the path that will lead them to their true destination in life, and granted, these paths are not labeled with big bubbly neon letters. However, and this may be on account of my own convoluted thinking, I feel that my path is even more obscured in bushels of foliage than everyone else's. I cannot help but think that I am somehow special, and although we all believe deep down somewhere that we are a movie star in our hearts, my desire to lead a life that stands out feels more vibrant than any other's. Although I have never read a page of Mark Twain in my life, I feel like I lived Huckleberry Finn's story in a past life of mine, and Finn's nomadic desires and adventerous spirit have somehow carried over into my current plane of existance. I'm afraid that upon stepping outside, my feet will take on a will of their own and pull me towards the open road. My Thumb in the air, and the wind at my back, I would severe this timid existance once and for all. I already have all the means necessary for survival --- a good head on my shoulders, some decent rags on my back, a knife, a backpack, a vicious spirit to tear up the world from end to end, as well as some paper and a pen.