Moving On
4 days and counting until I am back on campus.
I am excited, because college is where I finally felt like I was doing something right with my future, in terms of a career.
16 days until I am 20 years old.
It's weird to think I will be that old that soon. I still feel 16, confused, and uncertain as to where life will lead me.
20. Damn. I'm not what I think a 20 year-old should be.
I'm beginning to feel that I am almost ready to begin writing something. I'm not sure what yet, but all summer I have read and researched, trying to absorb as much vocabulary and writing style as possible.
Hopefully I can prove myself that I am capable of something. I'm my own critic. I just hope I can surprise even myself.
Normally when the summer ends I crave to relive the past month or even week, hoping to put off going back to school for as long as possible. When I was a freshman in high school, I can remember daydreaming about any meaningless, random summer day if only to place a barrier between the stressful new situation of high school and myself. Now, however, I feel ready. I will miss the peaceful days of lounging and reading, waiting for Hez to get off work so we could go have dinner. I'll miss those days, but I won't cling to them for salvation. I'm facing the future head-on, or as head-on as I am capable of.
I feel that in my soul, I am a writer. Whenever I experience a situation, I try to look for irony. When I look back on my past, I swear that certain persons were really something greater in my life, as if personifying something greater. I feel that my life is a book, which makes me wonder what chapter I'm in.
And how will it end? Will I end up the successful novelist, a NYT Bestseller, with a comfortable house in the ritzy neighborhood, sending my children off to private school? Will I be the busy plot writer for a major comic book publisher, commuting from upstate into the Big Apple every day, constantly outrunning the sword hanging over my head called "The Deadline?" Or will I be the psychologist, aiding people in their lives and struggles, again in a comfortable house with my family?
I guess the more important questions are: Which life will make me the happiest? Will I regret not taking one path instead of the other?
Which path makes my family happy? Which path leads to security?
I tell people I wanna be a writer, but when I speak of it, I'm not enthusiastic because I'm afraid people will laugh. What security is there in writing, people will say. How can you support yourself and a family doing THAT?
It's in my soul, though. No matter where I turn, I will always have the soul of a writer. Every sunset and grassy field I see isn't a picture; it's one thousand words of endless beauty and splendor.
There are times when I wonder if I have chosen Psych as a major to please others. It's a more "real" occupation, I guess. It's a science, at least. I guess, in my head, people take science more seriously than art.
Thinking about what I have just typed, I am angry. In MY OWN HEAD, science is more real than ART, when at the same time, I have a writer's soul! Where is the confidence? Where is the spirit that will get anything accomplished or published? Where is the sense of personal JUSTICE?! I have a writer's soul with the confidence of a man who refuses to believe in what he is!
Until I believe in myself, whatever I do will never mean anything. It will only be a stagnant progression towards personal injustice.
The wind suddenly carries an extra chill.
I am excited, because college is where I finally felt like I was doing something right with my future, in terms of a career.
16 days until I am 20 years old.
It's weird to think I will be that old that soon. I still feel 16, confused, and uncertain as to where life will lead me.
20. Damn. I'm not what I think a 20 year-old should be.
I'm beginning to feel that I am almost ready to begin writing something. I'm not sure what yet, but all summer I have read and researched, trying to absorb as much vocabulary and writing style as possible.
Hopefully I can prove myself that I am capable of something. I'm my own critic. I just hope I can surprise even myself.
Normally when the summer ends I crave to relive the past month or even week, hoping to put off going back to school for as long as possible. When I was a freshman in high school, I can remember daydreaming about any meaningless, random summer day if only to place a barrier between the stressful new situation of high school and myself. Now, however, I feel ready. I will miss the peaceful days of lounging and reading, waiting for Hez to get off work so we could go have dinner. I'll miss those days, but I won't cling to them for salvation. I'm facing the future head-on, or as head-on as I am capable of.
I feel that in my soul, I am a writer. Whenever I experience a situation, I try to look for irony. When I look back on my past, I swear that certain persons were really something greater in my life, as if personifying something greater. I feel that my life is a book, which makes me wonder what chapter I'm in.
And how will it end? Will I end up the successful novelist, a NYT Bestseller, with a comfortable house in the ritzy neighborhood, sending my children off to private school? Will I be the busy plot writer for a major comic book publisher, commuting from upstate into the Big Apple every day, constantly outrunning the sword hanging over my head called "The Deadline?" Or will I be the psychologist, aiding people in their lives and struggles, again in a comfortable house with my family?
I guess the more important questions are: Which life will make me the happiest? Will I regret not taking one path instead of the other?
Which path makes my family happy? Which path leads to security?
I tell people I wanna be a writer, but when I speak of it, I'm not enthusiastic because I'm afraid people will laugh. What security is there in writing, people will say. How can you support yourself and a family doing THAT?
It's in my soul, though. No matter where I turn, I will always have the soul of a writer. Every sunset and grassy field I see isn't a picture; it's one thousand words of endless beauty and splendor.
There are times when I wonder if I have chosen Psych as a major to please others. It's a more "real" occupation, I guess. It's a science, at least. I guess, in my head, people take science more seriously than art.
Thinking about what I have just typed, I am angry. In MY OWN HEAD, science is more real than ART, when at the same time, I have a writer's soul! Where is the confidence? Where is the spirit that will get anything accomplished or published? Where is the sense of personal JUSTICE?! I have a writer's soul with the confidence of a man who refuses to believe in what he is!
Until I believe in myself, whatever I do will never mean anything. It will only be a stagnant progression towards personal injustice.
The wind suddenly carries an extra chill.