The entirety of my life, I have always fantasized about being a writer. I imagined it to be some sort of magical life akin to what most probably compared to dreaming of becoming movie stars. I glamorized it. The first time I can remember wanting to be a writer, I was nine years old and receiving my first journal; this was my astronaut. Of all the things I dreamed myself becoming, writing always seemed the most attainable, the most realistic.
As of today, I can barely imagine myself becoming anything and I begin to wonder if anyone my age might experience the same tragedy. To be 23 and nearly jobless was not where I saw myself being 6 years ago.
Maybe my aspirations were unlikely. Maybe the sociological demand is that one be perfect and brilliant. Somehow I feel nearly obligated to be breathing.
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