Waking up.

It occurred to me. I don't need to attend journalism school. What I really ought to do is commit to the words God gives me.

I know I should write every day. At this rate, I certainly could. There's an interesting dichotomy I've noticed. On one hand, I mourn the years. The time between when I graduated with my BA until now is filled with (seemingly) little more than loneliness and screw-ups. Dead ends. In my head there's an image of a scrawny bird with a downy head and flapping wings. She tries to leave her nest more than once but fails miserably. (A pathetic, melodramatic image. But a pretty apt one.)

And then I wake up from that pity party and ask myself what I've done to further the pursuit of my own goals. For example, I have this blog. Do I use it? Not as much as I could or should. I could work to write my way to liberty, but I haven't been. It's strange. As though I've never trusted myself to pursue my heart's desires. Save for teaching. But as much as I love teaching, it is not all of me...