Because we've got the fire, and it's time.
The road here is maybe Frost's. Or McCarthy's. Lined with faces, some shout from their broken places don't do it. They are destroyed by time thieves, the Men In Gray of Ende's mind. Smoke and ash pour from the mouth and eyes of the living dead here, those who watched the last embers of dreams collapse. They scream and claw and doubt. A writer?! They laugh.
Because we're carrying the fire, that's why.
The responsible thing would be to keep my job. To continue on until this industry works me over as it has thousands of others. To watch the orange colored gel I imagine my soul to consist of to drain steady from me. I'll lose my health insurance, my doctor cries. But if I consider the expanding list of illnesses I'm currently treated for, I can trace all of them to stress. My doctors certainly do. I am tired of blood drawn and tests run to nothing. I am tired of having no time.
So I'm going to leave soon. I won't need much. A notebook and some pens. Some short stories to read. It's time to do this thing. I'll still have the library, but no more of this lonely hotel.