I’ve always found it to be easier and more enjoyable to write about other people and their lives. What I like even more than that is to make up stories about non-existent people and their lives. I’ve never considered my life to be interesting or adventurous or even very important. I suppose that some are meant to live the stories and some are meant to write them. Maybe I’m a writer; maybe I’m a subject to be written about and I’m unaware of it. Perhaps I’m both. This year, I’ve learned a great deal about my life. People have been asking me constantly about what I’m doing after high school. My plans aren’t extravagant. I am going to college and will ultimately be a teacher. I will teach younger children and have a family and a happy, normal life. A “safe” life. It doesn’t sound too terribly exciting. But I know I’ll have a few little adventures, and in the meantime, I will read about travelers and brave men and women and the kind of people who hear a song or a story or an echo and decide to move to a new place and do something they’d never even thought of. I may write some, too – little blurbs about an intense love affair with life that someone else lives. Maybe I’ll become exciting and interesting and important when I get older, but maybe I’ll just write. I never thought I’d be an author (and I still don’t) but in our own ways, everyone is an author of a sort. Either way, whether I become the story or the storyteller, I find comfort in the fact that I have purpose. I will be something. Whether it amounts to something of an ocean or it has the fame of a creek, my life is happening. I have worth in myself and since we all understand our lives are limited by the world, I hold fast to my purpose: to live. I am here now. Here I am now. Now I am here.