But, like I said in the beginning, I did not long for that world, for that America. I wanted freedom in the artistic sense. Where one is free to view his surroundings and write them down, don’t you know. 

This is what truly takes courage. It’s easy to be somebody in this city, take a ticket and wait your turn, or ambitiously go out and cause a ruckus, begging everyone to take notice, and eventually they would. That is, if you played your cards right and tickled the right ass.

I chose none of that. I thought I wanted to save the workers at Donahue’s, be a real pain in the ass to the Irish on all levels, but boy, was I wrong. What a fool to have thought that way; real manic state. A state of grandeur. The feeling of being the most important man alive. Another Jimmy Hoffa. Yet, there was no fight in me. There was no sense to expose the take, the corruption that was going on everywhere. Leave it to someone else to get the glory. Let him be on the cover of newspapers. I just wanted to be alone. Alone with my thoughts and writing.

And that’s when it kicked in. A depression never felt before. Sure, I often thought of ending it all, ever since I was a kid. Never did I feel truly happy or content; not in my father’s blessings nor in my mother’s arms. There was always a voice saying to me, this is it. 

So I take the train deep into night and ponder what it would be like to no longer exist. To no longer have any form, no being whatsoever. I write it down in my notebook as the conductor says, 95th Street. This is 95th Street. End of the line.

I smile and get on another train, going north all the way to Howard, thinking there’s got to be an easier way. Maybe I always took the easiest way. Perhaps the easiest way was the hardest.

Just keep writing. I said. Just keep writing.