[Horribly Lame Moanings of Artistic Angst]

I wish I had the guts to really live. I wish I wasn't programmed by this comfortable, modern life.

I wish I lived in 1928, I'd be in Texas with Jim Thompson running from gangsters.

Or in 1901, hanging underneath freight trains with Jack London.

Or in 1969, sipping whiskey in bombed out Irish hotel bars with Jack Higgins.

Or in 1936, freezing in a Spanish trench with Orwell waiting for an attack.

Or in 1934, watching bullfights with the Hemingway crowd.

Or in 1968, partying with Hell's Angels ala Hunter S.

All places and times I'd rather be. Sure, I fit in what adventuring I can. And I do a pretty good bit for my part. But I feel like there is less opportunity for adventure in the world today. And of course, I am trapped by the illusion that there is more to lose today then in years gone by.

Sometimes I wish I had the guts to risk it all.

Of course it is easy to make light of my own stories and experiences when comparing them to greatness. But as I sit here trying to write tonight, coming up with cliche after cliche, I wonder. When (if ever) will my greatness come?

Originally posted on November 3, 2006 on Myspace.

SIGH.