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"Free Bird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd
I like imagining I'm driving a Chevy Impala '67 across a desert, like the roads in Nevada, like route 66. I imagine my dog is in the passenger seat and I'm wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and a pair of sunglasses.
We're going to California. Of course, I'm listening to "Going to California" by Led Zeppelin. Santa Cruz, to be specific. I'd manage to go to Death Valley at some point, set up camp and stay up late to watch the stars come out from their hiding spots.
Sometimes, I have a friend with me, but usually it's the kind of friend who is mostly quiet unless they want to say something meaningful or make me laugh. It changes.
I'm a drifter, in these day dreams. It actually did start out as a dream I had at night, but when I woke up, I felt more relaxed than I have in a while.
Maybe I should explain how I'm doing. I wouldn't like to say bad. I guess overall, it is pretty bad, though. I'm actually ALWAYS tired. Physically. Mentally, I'd like to never sleep again, but I'm too tired to sleep at the same time. I've been absent from school a lot because I keep getting headaches and I keep feeling like I'm rotting alive.
Anyway. Back to the dream. In my daydreams, I am a drifter. I live nowhere but my car. My only real friend is my dog. I get myself into trouble trying to help people out.
I know paranormal stuff don't exist, so maybe in these daydreams, I'm just trying to solve mysteries.
I wish I could be like this, someday. I wish I knew about cars so I could modify the Impala. Put in seat belts, make it more efficient.
I pretty much only know how gaskets work.
I guess driving in the car on a sunny day somewhere far away from Northeast United States of America with my dog is my dream.
It will never end up this way. Pressure, pressure, pressure. I have to do good in school, even NOW so I can get into a good college and make money and not die. I've got a work fast, I've gotta learn more, I've gotta be better than everyone else so I can go somewhere.
I need to be perfect, with my social skills. In the real world, art is useless. Writing is unpredictable. The only reliable way to make sure you'll be okay is to make it through college and get a dead-end job that pays enough for you to live in suburbia with two cars, a husband or wife, a couple kids, and a dog.
I wonder what it's like to be free.
What am I chained to, anyway? Reality. Because in real life, you can't be free. You can't do anything without money. You can't get money without a good job. You can't take care of the things and people you love without that money.
Money, money, money.
That's everything, now.
There is nothing else.
You may not be able to buy happiness, but you can buy everything else.
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