Vocations

When you're a kid, people are always going to ask you what you want to be when you grow up.

It's nice for the ones who've always known; cute little smart-asses who've always wanted to be doctors or lawyers or even little flimsy girls who dreamed of becoming supermodels. Unfortunately, I was not one of them.

When I was younger we had to make clay models of what we saw our futures to be--I moulded a woman playing the piano. Of course, back then, I wasn't a big music junkie, nor was I taking piano lessons. I didn't take lessons until I was 15, actually. I'm 17 and I've stopped.

At one point, I saw myself as a vet. I've always loved animals. Always wanted to help them in some way. Up until last year, I'd been trying to force myself to toughen up for that career path. I am lightly squeamish, yes. But I easily break down at pain. And just the thought of contributing to death, even when you're trying to help--it scares me.

So I guess I'm not really meant for that. (I console myself often with a promise to do volunteer work for PAWS one day.)

Writing, for me, was always in the background. Something I loved to do, something I was actually good at, something that made me feel safe even when I failed at it sometimes. It was my comfort zone. My means of self-expression.

I only realized recently that this is what it's supposed to feel like, one's true vocation. I know it's really cliche. But lately I've been feeling this inexplicable pull to pursuing it. You're supposed to do what makes you happy, right?

This is is one dilemma that never fails to keep me up. Especially now that time is running out.

Sometimes I wish I could be like Penelope Stam from that movie, The Brothers Bloom.

She collects hobbies for a living. No, she doesn't really even need to earn a living. I guess that would make me happy. If only a never-ending stream of cash were within my reach.

For now, I'm still contemplating.