[This is what I do instead of studying. This is the roughest of rough drafts.]
Shall I be a prestigious pre-law student, positioning myself politically to help the poor and less fortunate, pressing myself into the public sphere so that change can be done?
Shall I be a counselor and convey complete empathy and compassion to children and adolescents faced with growing pains, culture pains, catastrophic emotions and suicidal brains?
Shall I be a journalist conjoining the ends of the earth in one photo, one story marked with the joy of traveling, jumping from continent to continent in search of cosmic truth?
Shall I be an anthropologist obsessed with myth in literature, marveling in the endless labyrinths of the mind, the maker, the models and modes of living in an unanswerable existential question?
And what if I was to ask to be a doctor, a physician if I may? Has my time elapsed, those dreams collapsed upon the good nature of my search?
Or perhaps an astronaut? The classes for which I’d never sought, but a girl can imagine, can she not—to wish upon a star?
My reveries and hopes to me forever are a mystery. Who will I be, who can I be? Now that I am aging there’s no guarantee. I’ve yet to find that peace of mind that tells me this is the best degree.
Is this the career I’ve forever pined? Are there no answers or is it a fear of some kind? I’d rather explore than be a bore whose choice is to steer
Forever boggled, forever confused and yet I am continuously amused.