I want to give up. I want to pack this small closet into one case, grab the typewriter, the computer, the stacks of blank pages I keep beside, stuff it all into my car and go. I'll swing by the gas station and by two packs of cigarettes. I'll go to the bank, close my account, pull out the feeble 2 grand or so I have left, fill up the tank, and say goodbye to my family.
I'll head east. As far as I can go. Into the night I'll stop at a pay phone and call her in the rain, tell her I'm never coming back, tell her she knew me best, however little that may have been. I'll be finishing my first pack as the sun drips back to the road. I'll be singing along to all those songs that kept me at peace when I should've been screaming back the death ahead, driving cracks into the walls. I'll wish I'd taken someone with me, I'll know that no one would have come, I'll imagine the happiness that could have shimmered, when all there is is the sun in my eyes.
Keep riding, Ben, there's nothing left for you.
Keep writing, Ben, there's nothing left to tell.
Keep dreaming, Ben, life can't give you that.
Keep hoping, Ben, it's the only medicine to keep you alive.
As there are never any true answers, there are always more questions burning from one to the next, and if I start I won't stop, if I stay I'll never begin.
I'm telling you, I really want to give up.
I'm telling you, yes, I'm thinking about giving up.
There aren't any dreams, and hope is down to less than a quarter tank.
All I've ever really wanted is someone sitting beside me, to believe in me so I can too.