My heartbeat doesn’t necessarily engage with the pumping of blood through my veins - instead, it pumps numerous thoughts through my head. As much of a curse as it may be, I am constantly in thought. When I walk the hallways of my school, I am contemplating the actions of people around me. When I lie in bed, trying to fall asleep at night, I end up examining my day, and how I spent it. Whenever I eat a meal, or even a snack, I am mentally judging every aspect that I can of the food that is entering my mouth. Yet at the same time, it’s taken me a while to truly understand what I am thinking about. Why? Well, think of it this way: my thoughts are like a small child who has just locked eyes with a candy shop, and my being is like that child’s slightly-over-middle-aged parent who now must chase after them (not to much avail, mind you). I seldom can hold onto my thoughts once they enter my mind. I'm not sure if I'm one of many people who suffer from this, but the aftertaste I get from trying to explain it to people renders me to think that I might just be the only one. For a while, this served as a pipe clog in my life, and finally I decided to start gathering these thoughts onto paper, where I could examine them; I finally decided that I was meant to be a writer.

I have had many times during my life of ups and downs, of inspiration and writer’s blocks, of strong assurance and of doubt. This is a normality for all humans, I realize. Still - for years, it caused me to stop and think to myself, “Am I meant to be a writer? Will it do any good for me? Am I worth the trouble of going into the writing field?” My thoughts, like always, were not clear.

What’s more is that I’m a very indecisive person. I often feel like being indecisive goes along with being a procrastinator, which I must confess, I am a bit of one as well. At the same time, however, no-one expects a young, nine-year-old girl to know what she wants to be when she grows up. Though I quickly surpassed the age of nine, I was still never asked much of what I wanted to do with my life - either that, or no-one really cared. The questions that people asked me went from “What do you want to be when you grow up?” to “What will your major be in college next year?” The playing field is much broader with a college major than it is with an occupation, and the lack of questions dealing with my intended career has made my guard slip, and as much as I hate to say it, I’ve become slightly lazy.

I’ve come to decide upon one thing in my life, however: I’m a writer. It’s what I was born to do, what I wouldn’t mind doing until my hands deteriorate from arthritis, and what I honestly plan to do until that fateful day finally befalls me, where I’ll then simply hire someone to write for me. I don’t want to write for the fame, for the recognition, or even for the expression, quite frankly. Something in my soul eases when my pencil hits the page and those squiggly lines that we call letters begin to fill the lines. The gears in my head begin to turn when I have nothing to do besides ramble about my boredom on Microsoft Word. I want to write because it feels right - nothing will stop me.