I have tried everything, but nothing seems to scratch my unreachable spot like my number two pencil scrawling across a piece of college-ruled scrap paper.
I dream of studying anatomy and learning the ins and outs of the human body. I will become a doctor, I tell myself. Saving lives and making a tangible difference will be worth the hours of study and the sleepless nights. As I open my Biology book, my mind wanders and I concoct stories of small robots that can be swallowed and tasked to clean one’s colon. Imagine the disaster if some sinister force was able to control these robots and give them a new mission ‘” global domination via robotic infestation?
I think about fashion and beauty ‘” I could be a designer! I browse magazines and go on crazy diets to try to play the part of an artist of the material world. As I peruse the racks at the local thrift store hunting for an “amazing find,” I think about a handsome, penniless dancer falling in love with the daughter of a tailor. Their families would never agree to the match so they plan to run away together. The trendy outfit in my hands suddenly loses flavor as I search for a napkin or old receipt for note-jotting.
I run from it as hard as my fingers will carry me. I Google possible careers that could keep me from my calling and, even as I am searching for “professional organizer,” I realize my right hand has betrayed me and a Word document is open and that maniacal cursor is blinking again. He eggs me on and what was supposed to be one sentence to appease him turns into a short story about a young girl with strawberry-blonde hair, a love for cold milk in orange plastic cups, and the desire to become an athlete despite her extreme clumsiness.
I know what you are thinking ‘” I see your left eyebrow rise as you say, “Why don’t you just let yourself write something?” I love to write, but I am also a coward. I read beauties from other self-proclaimed writers and I both hide in their shadows and wonder how my deformed showpieces could ever live up to their front-runners. The other problem with me is that I am critical and proud. I read trash from other self-proclaimed writers and I laugh on the inside at their weak attempts to “be the next Stephen King” or I secretly wonder if I laugh because I see my ditties hanging out after school with their ditties. I love to write, but what good is writing? If there is nothing new under the sun, is it not just a waste of my time to try to rearrange letters for record-keeping entertainment?
Do you ever feel cursed by desire?