Maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home

Do I stay? Do I leave? Where do I go? What about all these faces I'll probably never see again? Is this a phase? I don't know. I've been itching to get up and leave, fulfill my gypsy needs and just leave it all behind me. Find a new life. I know it's not that easy, but oh, how I wish it was. The people around me are no longer the people they used to be. They're nothing but anchors, dedicated to pulling me down and making the struggle even harder. What are they good for, what are you good for? We used to laugh, we used to play, now all we do is argue and all I do is find you annoying. I don't see myself being here much longer. Why continue drinking the poison? For hope that it turns into wine, I suppose. And that everything will go back to normal and I will be happy with the faces I know too well and the small city with no adventure.
I long for dirty windows of metal buses, chattering along dusty roads. Strange places, strange faces, nomads wrinkled with the wear of travel. I long for different cities every week, different people to dance with, different dogs to touch. I wish I could pack my entire life into a suitcase and just bid this one goodbye.