Baggage, holding me down, drowning me in ridicule. Baggage, that tugs and pulls and forces me to live another's life because I can't live my own without it. Baggage, that follows me in every second and reminds me constantly that without me, it stays, alone and gathering dust, and so I feel guilty and bring it along.
This tattered rucksack is full of holes and, unlike Kerouac, is no longer worthy of the road less traveled, of the wrong and long way home. Bless this broken road and bless my baby, because from here on out, I'm going solo. I'll buy a new bag in Birmingham if I have to.