"How many roads must a man walk down

Before you may call him a man"

"I'm certain when Bob Dylan wrote those lyrics, he meant them to have a metaphysical interpretation; well, actually, I'm certain he meant them to fit the tune and seem to have a deep, philosophical meaning, but I digress. I feel that taking those words physically makes just as much, if not more, sense."

"How many Roads must a man walk down? One. It may seem a little simple, or nonsensical, but bare with me on this theory, it will all become clear. Everyone has their own personal road, and once they have seen it, the world will become clearer and better to them. Everything is better, food, drink, even air. I'm not just talking slightly better as well, after you find your road, it will be possible to eat even Monster Munch without engaging your gag reflex, sounds implausible, no?"

"I have found my road, but it took me a while. I'd walked down the self same road many times before I discovered it to be ‘mine'. This is because for about 23 and half hours a day, my road isn't my road, it is simply a road. During the day it's a horrible mass of people, the kind of place where you start walking around purposefully and looking annoyed, even when you're aimless; you get caught up in the hustle and bustle so easily; it's like an illness; but apparently, there is a vaccination."

"The Goths take it. Of course, being Goths, they won't admit to being Goths. They like to think that they're an individual group, doing things totally different to everyone else, but they express their difference in exactly the same way as millions of others: wearing black clothes, chains and white and/or black make up. I can never decide if they raise the tone by being an island of godlessness in a sea of rushing and careerism or lower the tone for exactly the same reason. They are an anomaly."

"Now, my road isn't at night either, where the whole boulevard becomes filled with drunks and unbearable. The careerists are gone and replaced by the partiers. Instead of desperation to appear busy and important, there's desperation to seem popular and fun loving. It's worse, much worse. The neon signs burning unpleasant names and pictures on your mind and the vomit stained streets burning even worse smells on your nostrils."

"My road is both of these places, and yet neither. As the rushing suits leave and the "fun" loving drunkards get ready to come out, for about half an hour, my road becomes paradise; tranquillity personified. A couple of people walking past, a lone busker playing a tin whistle and no further movement, this is my road. A car goes by, its head lights causing a small pool of light to appear on the ground in front of it. Paradise. It's about seven o' clock and the universe seems to be silent and still."

"I go to my road every night, declare myself king and demand a toll from passers by. Obviously not physically, I don't put on a crown made of the day's rubbish and mug strangers. I walk up and down, silently, unseen. My tribute is them adding to the peaceful delight that is my road, it is worth more than any money they could possibly give me."