In Transit

I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was-- I was far from home, haunted and tired with travel ... (hearing) all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.
-On the Road, Jack Kerouac*

There's a time, early in life, when you can be anything. You can be a bum, president, farmer, doctor, nurse, teacher, thief, murderer, senator, soldier, preacher, writer, artist, etc. Then one day, you choose which path to take and walk it to the very end. And you can only take one path**.

It's like choosing which bus to ride in a bus station. And you only have enough money for a one-way trip to wherever.

I want to ride all the buses, but I can't. It's impossible. To try would be foolish.

So here I am at the station waiting for The Bus to come.
The days are slow and the wait is killing me.

Reminds me of a poem I used in English 11. The final exam was a poem recitation. It had to be memorized. I got the shortest poem I could get. It went like this:

In a Station of the Metro
by: Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

* Thank you AM for the recommendation.
** Of course, you can cheat and take two or three paths.