You know it’s time to go to bed when the update number actually reflects the number of posts being added to your dash.
Yea, the high school I went to. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be asked to teach band camp stuff over the summer. I’ve thought about giving private lessons, but I don’t know yet. I’ll be moving in the fall, so probably not. Thanks for the suggestions.
I’ve already been accepted for fall at FSU, in the education program. I’ll be auditioning for the College of Music again as soon as I can.
I’m surprised someone even read my text post. Usually they just get ignored. Which road do you mean? Which road would you get on?
Because I jut feel like my life is careening down a road in a car that I am not driving. Ever since I failed to pass my auditions I just feel like everything in my life is wrong. Every day when I drive down the road I look at the window and I feel the wind on my face, but what I see feels wrong. I feel like I should be driving down two lane roads, in the middle of America, going nowhere and being everywhere. I wish I was somewhere different every day. I wish there was music playing from nowhere, a constant soundtrack to a life that I’m not living. It’s like the music is playing but I’m not in taking my role. I want to drive down an ocean-side road and look out to the sea. I feel like every day I work towards my future I just tie one more knot in the binding of my life. Sometimes I wish my life was just a montage of one big road trip. I feel like I imagine things in a way that they could never be. I don’t know. My facade is three-fold. On the outside is the person I am perceived to be. I wouldn’t be so arrogant as to describe that. Only you, those who perceive me, can truly do that. I guess if I had to it would be that I’m care-free. On the outside I think people see me as weightless, like nothing matters to me. Maybe that’s true. I don’t know yet. Below the shell, the meat of me, is the cold, analytic computer. It thinks, therefor it is. I judge, I compute. I solve problems. I evaluate a situation, and I react. Fortunately I am “adjusted” enough to translate that reaction to the shell, so it can be made into something personable. The computer does not care. It has it’s needs of course. It has an id. It has an ego too, and I suppose the computer is what pushes me, pushes me to perform. It’s what makes me do normal things, like go to school and do homework and so forth. It is the dominant factor I think. But there is more beneath that. Some inner force. Something, well, primal is not the world. It feels old, but not ancient. It is the wanderlust. If I could have been a cowboy, I think that would have been interesting. I am usually the last person to romanticize the past, there have always been bad things, in every part of history. But the feeling of independence allures me. Nothing but a horse, and a gun. A rifleman. A gunslinger. Whatever you want to call it. I feel like that’s what’s inside. The computer locks it down mostly. I do have odd compulsions though. Almost hourly I imagine working a bolt action rifle. I can feel the bolt handle in the meat of my hand, the stock on my shoulder. Every day I want to get in my car and just drive somewhere. Inside I know I want to drive far away, as far as I can get. But the computer knows better otherwise. I just go about my life, doing what I should do. What I am supposed to do. The wanderlust calls and I do not answer. I fantasize sometimes about what would happen if I did answer. Unfortunately, I am probably not hard enough to handle it. I guess I’ll probably never know. The wanderlust calls and I do not answer. I know that if I answer, I can never go back. I know that if I answer, there is only my horse and my gun. Is that what scares me? I do not know.
It calls and I do not answer.