Unnecessary Thoughts of a High School Student

My Future or Part of it, at Least

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Of all sad words of mouth or pen, the saddest are these: it might've been—John Greenleaf Whiltier

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It has come to a certain point in my high school career where I remain in a standstill concerning my decisions about my desired work force. Obviously, I have a vague idea in line with my interests, but as this job dictates the measurement of my satisfaction in life, I can never be too sure. I am never too sure. It's a tremendous choice that weighs heavy on the grooves of my shoulders, and I can't think of anyone in my school who is ever fully certain that their plan will be followed down to the very jut of the pen.

I have two paths I can venture: A pediatrician or a place in computer engineering (I'm not exactly sure what this subject entails, but I'd like to try) like my father. On fantastical occurrences, I'd perhaps fancy myself in an artistic career—I'm told I'm relatively decent with a pencil—but quite frankly, that's impossible. Well, not impossible, there's always a probability, but it's out of my proximity, at least.

When I was in first grade, my teacher laid out several pieces of paper, all of career plans. They were the generic palette of ideal layouts—a fireman, a policeman, a chef, a teacher, etc. Boys attracted to the "boyish" jobs, like a policeman (It's so painstakingly clear how such gender roles seeped into our childhood), and many girls strived for a teacher, aiming to please.  A simple soul, I loved books, therefore I chose a career I believed rendered me exposed to such an environment at all times. I chose to be a librarian—probably the only child to do so out of the class of twenty-four.

At this point, my best friend of two and a half years drew an unfamiliar profession. A women clad in paint-splattered jeans and an ironically white apron was pressed upon the page, a canvas lined across the background. I didn't know what it was.

"A painter," Ashley provided when I questioned her.

I had always thought painters were the people who stood tall on the billboards and drew on the advertisements. Embarrassed at my misunderstanding, I refused to voice my confusion and instead opted to steering the conversation in a convoluted journey to feed my curiosity. As much of a desire to learn I contained, I had—have—just as much pride. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Well," she contemplated for a moment, "I like to draw."

"If you like to draw, you can be an artist?"

"I guess. You get to do art all the time."

All the time. My eyes sparkled, and a bitter resentment built in me for picking a librarian. I wanted to be an artist. Instantly, I wondered if I could trade, but it's too late, and I end up sulking the entire day.

(A flaw: I'm incredibly petty. I won't hide that. I regret decisions faster than I do them, and I'm easily influenced by others. If someone holds something better than what I currently hold, I'll want to do the same thing, but be better. I always want to be better, a certain self-satisfaction, one that makes me question if that aspect of myself makes me a bad person. It disables me from genuine, to-the-core excitement—this disgusting envy that wraps around my chest like a strait jacket.)

I aspired to be an artist until fourth grade, when my mother tells me to keep it as a hobby; it's not stable, it's risky, and it's hard. You can't simply love art to be an artist. It takes commitment, a certain insatiable passion, and a deep-rooted ambition. I'm intimidated. It intimidates me, and as a result, I falter. I stop.

I put down my pencil, and I shy away, and I lose a lot: my passion and my ambition. Don't worry, I gain too: a despicable sense of sloth and an unshaken shyness—or is it shame?

Maybe that's why I'm not afraid of hard work or long years. It doesn't require confrontation, and it's silent, and it's guaranteed. I only take bets I know I'll win, and man, if life isn't the greatest gamble. I'll take the most cards and choose what I know is within my range, because that's life and that's me.

(Another flaw: I'm a coward who fears failure.)