On The Road; the journey of a young writer

And so you live like this, day after day, striving and fighting to simply become, or even better — to be. Something better, something more. Something you can live as and live with. A little more developed, a little more defined and de- cluttered. But then there’s the people, the world, telling you over and over again who you are and what you actually like and who you actually want to be, and so that real voice in your head speaks softer every day, until you one day wake up and it’s gone. They killed it, these bastards, with their empty words and useless talks. These people who are acting like stones, walking without bending their knees, without rolling their feet. Talking with empty words and doing tasks without a heart. They broke it. Drowned it. These damned “experts”.

So I packed light and spent months on the road, homeless but at home. Lost yet unable to be lost because I had no destination. I arrived in new cities every morning, scraped coins to afford coffee and then tried to find the busiest venue in town where I begged them to let me play a set or two. If I was lucky I sold enough albums to afford the train the next day. If I was luckier I could afford whiskey and if I was a god damn star I got some tip from the sound-guy. You read and write and sing and experience, thinking that one day these things will build the character you admire to live as. You love and lose and bleed best you can, to the extreme, hoping that one day the world will read you like the poem you want to be. One day, things will change and you will not have to struggle every day to convince people that you and your art are good enough. One day, you will be able to be you, and be okay with that.
All I wanted was to be me, and to be okay with that.

// from Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps by Charlotte Eriksson