I Could Be Coming To An End

As this is my last full day in France before departing tomorrow for my two-hop flight back to San Francisco, I may be reaching a conclusion and end, meaning I have lost both interest in driving taxi and writing about it.  While heretical to some, after a month's absence I would rather not return. Why?  Because as I expressed last week, taxi for me is unimportant, something I am doing only to make money.  Consider the difference between driving cab, and what I have doing the past few days, consumed with the final editing of my newest book.  In my youthful autobiography I am examining my developmental days, how those same years affected my family, along with a thoughtful peek at culture and society dating form the mid-1950s to the near conclusion of 1968.  What sounds more important to you?  And by getting the correct publisher, I will be making money, and if getting very lucky, enough money to support my future writing, allowing me not to waste my time with something, anything I am not interested it.  Writing these words means I have now declared war upon myself for allowing myself to be where I currently am.  No, I don't mean the northern Parisian suburb of Monsoult, sitting in a breakfast surrounded two sides by extensive gardens.  What I mean is war upon all my diversions taking me away from writing.  Going way back to 1979 and San Francisco, I was writing every day, reading constantly and editing poetry for a magazine with a world-wide quarterly distribution of 10,000 copies. For many sundry and assorted reasons I have lost that original focus but clearly I must regain, and regain it I will because my lifespan is closing, and time, not only lost, will be completely eliminated.  I will be dead.  And since that is obvious, I only have one choice, to embrace writing and everything else, excuse my impoliteness, be damned!