on becoming a writer

since fall term ended about a week ago, i've been waking up, working, falling asleep thinking about writing. i've been sorting through ideas for essays and poetry and research, and i feel an energy that has eluded me for years. it simmers beneath the mundane, allowing me to dream and to feel alive even though the sun sets before five, and the majority of my day is spent in bed or at work.

i've always wanted to be a writer, and i've always wanted to be an artist, occupations that thrive in uncertainty and financial deprivation. to justify the expense of college, especially to parents who could care less about my education, i've felt pressured to choose something more useful, something more socially acceptable for a career, and to do the things that really move me--drawing, photographing, writing--on the side. but that whole "on the side" thing doesn't really work for me, because i want to be immersed in those passions, i want to breathe my art and the art of others. damming my passions, as i've been doing since leaving home, serves only to cut off my enthusiasm for life, leaving me apathetic and dull.

how could i have missed this? i've been staggering through depression for years, and if the most significant reason why is because i've missed my purpose, then this is it. this is the solution, or at least a valid way back to solid ground.

and, if money and material possessions really mean as little to me as i say they do, then the risk of dying as poor as i was born should not threaten me.