“I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!'”

— Jack Kerouac “On The Road”

I have always been drawn to an eccentric breed of people — those people who are slightly different from the norm and aren’t afraid to show it physically or mentally. But before I came to this university, I had never really met anyone who was truly different.

All of my high school friends were plain vanilla souls who only cared about getting laid and working a monotonous, part-time fast-food job to scavenge enough money together to throw the next big party. They had no inspiration, no creativity, no desire to accomplish anything beyond walking down the hallway to the toilet without falling down.

Not that throwing parties and getting trashed all the time wasn’t fun. But it was definitely lacking. I realized that there had to be more to life than sitting around playing video games, watching MTV and constantly eating to prevent dry heaves and the munchies. There had to be worlds filled with insanity and skepticism, people who were more tangible than Kerouac and Jim Morrison, ideas that were so radical that they made fly-infested lightbulbs pale in comparison.

I found the madness I craved at this university. I must admit that I have found the entire experience more than wholesome and fulfilling. It has been fantastic and frenetic, like an eternal orgasm amplified tenfold. But it has also been difficult.

I have watched friends fade away like rays of light drowned in darkness. I have seen them slowly flicker out of existence, and I have watched them with intense fascination as they spontaneously combusted into the night air. But even as my eccentric friends slowly trickled away to the depths of my memories, a few chose to remain — moths drawn to the idea of conquering knowledge and reality.

These few have kept me fairly sane and stable during my stay at this university. They have prevented me from becoming a bland shadow. They have introduced me to new worlds of thinking, new philosophies, new literature, new creative outlets. They have stopped me every time I sat in a window ledge out in Towers trying to gather the courage to drop nine floors. I credit them with my life, and I credit them for building my soul.

But now the few are joining the many, and I’m afraid that I will be all alone once again. Alone in my postmodern thoughts, deserted in my abstract world. I feel myself changing once again, my personality withdrawing and my emotions shutting down. But isn’t it better to be shelled up than to extend any part of myself and risk being hurt? I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.

I was hurt once, long ago when I was in high school. My best friend was killed in an automobile accident, a senseless way to be killed and one that will haunt me forever. I still get frightened every time I climb into an automobile. I’m nervous every second that I spend driving. But I drive over a hundred miles each day, and I smoke over a pack of cigarettes a day; I’ve got an ulcer and my headlights are becoming dimmer. What does it all mean? What does any of it mean?

I drive and I drive, endless miles of pavement stretching beyond the horizon. I drive, and I feel like an ant on the road of life, and I think of my friends who have left me. I think of my dead friend and I think of my son, and I realize that they have the same name. Sometimes I wonder if they are the same person.

Other times, I wonder if we aren’t all the same person, you and I, my friends and your friends. Regardless of sexual orientation, skin color, religious beliefs or financial standing, we are all the same. It’s an incredible dream that has caught me in its revolutionary grasp. But the idea itself is no longer revolutionary; it is stale and solid and degradable. It lacks a fresh perspective, it needs some more air to breathe.

My friends are like this idea, constantly contributing to the many facets of my life, welding me into the strange person that I am today, leading me towards a higher consciousness that the mundane world can no longer attain because of a lack of creativity and individualism. My friends are like this idea, screaming to the forefront of my mind, fighting to escape, struggling to explode.

Now I must cut these friends free and watch their metamorphoses, even as I change into something else. But I will never forget these friends, even as they seek to transcend time and space, even as they exchange their favored butterfly shells for frameworks of living heat, complete with homes and families and occupations. Is that the life they were meant to live? I don’t know. But as for me, I will always be free. I will always be free.

“The river flows into the sea, where the river flows that’s where you’ll find me. Flow, river, flow.”

— Bob Dylan & Roger McGuinn “The Ballad of Easy Rider”

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Ben Jones is a sophomore in English from Ankeny.