I always wanted to be an old eccentric reclusive sort of guy. I grew up with idols such as Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Kurt Cobain, even Edgar Allen Poe. Possibly needless to say, all died disgruntled drunks or addicts of sorts. Why then, is it a surprise that I would choose a path any different than that of my idols? The thing is that my eccentric idols all produced something, they managed to remain productive. On the other hand, I'd be quite happy with my apparent chosen path, following my idols and all, except that I don't appear brilliant and haven't managed to produce much. What happens to the drunken, eccentric, reclusive old man that didn't produce anything inspiring and also kept himself so secluded from others that he produced nothing meaningful, nothing inspiring? Those men, my life-long idols, were in a sense forgiven, for they gave something to society in their wake. Their seclusion and apparent lack of appreciation for this life was truly forgiven and even somewhat celebrated in that the birth of their art was so painful that it just makes sense that they were so troubled, that they wasted their lives away. But what about me? What have I contributed by sitting at the end of the bar, watching a basketball game I couldn't care less about, warming the bar stool for the next poor soul who unwittingly walks through the door? When does my inspiration hit? When do I make up for my debt against society?
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