I met a philosopher on the bus today.
E wouldn't say that he's a philosopher; he's a pipe-fitter by trade. But he's a sophist all the same, and he'd do well in the musty halls of a university.
In the meantime, he's exploring the twisted corridors of Anarchosyndicalism.
When I met E on the bus in the morning, I was happy for a chance to talk about the perils of writing and living, the slings and arrows of outrageous education. When He was on the same route back, we got a little more serious, talking about his Marxist-Anarchist political alignments and his plan for the future. E is a would-be-journalist, but he's out there living his life for a bit before he gets serious about writing anything down. He keeps journals and three (!) 'blogs, but he doesn't take any of that seriously. After all, he dropped out of high school in New Brunswick four months from completion.

I've often wondered what I would have done with myself if I hadn't gone to university. I'll never find out, of course; but I meet people like E and I wonder how much of his personality I'm really picking up on, how much is simply a transference or projection of my own identity as would-be-drop-out...

Who's in the place with more opportunities: the kid who dropped out and lived a life almost worth writing about, or the kid who studied for eight years and found a voice and style and sense of reason almost worth writing from? Are these really different people, or are they the same kid with the same problem?

Why can't I just write what I need to write? Why can't I just do what I need to do? What's stopping me? What's that feeling in the front of my head--right above my eyes, and slightly behind--that makes writing and reading and stepping out onto the path seem such an impossibility?

I'm sure that none of this makes sense. Oh well.

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