Wednesday, May 1, 1:14 p.m.
Astronaut. Veterinarian. Author. Editor. Counselor. Author. Forensic psychologist. Counselor.
I never could decide what I wanted to do with my life. We took career quizzes from elementary school onward, but when we researched our ideal job in middle school to present to the student body and all their families, I was no closer to knowing what I wanted to be. I created a presentation on morticians. That was laughable. By the time our corresponding high school project came around, I researched editorial work. In community college, I majored in psychology with no idea which area I wanted to specialize in.
My stories followed a similar path. I started a work with some vague idea of a plot only to give it up for a new, more exciting idea. In short, I lacked discipline.
Now my journal faces the same obstacle. What shall I become: a mind on display or the protagonist of my version of the past? Shall my words be a character study, or must I construct a plot? I write this not at three in the morning in a state of somnolence and rumination, but in the afternoon with, perhaps, a light sense of ennui. The time for decisions has come, and I am unprepared.
However, I will not give in to hebetude or negligence, if only for my pride. If I attempt both introspection and a sustainable story and fail at both, so be it. My journal has some use yet. There are unpleasant memories I continue to skirt around, as if tenderly touching a wound. I tire of the infection under the sensitive skin. It is time to draw out the pus.
I am Ablach, but even I have agency.
YOU ARE READING
Mind, have mercy.
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