A Train of Thought

       I'm not really sure why I'm even bothering to write today. I guess I'm hoping for the satisfaction writing generally gives me.
       When I write, whether it's fact or fiction I get this pure and whole feeling inside. I never get that feeling from anything else I do. It's hard to explain it.
       It's almost as if I'm leaving my body and traveling into a different world, it's similar to the enjoyment I get out of reading. Except I choose the story, the life that I enter is free for my fingers to manipulate. It has always meant a lot to me, I've always been excited to be in English classes that require me to write a lot of short stories. Which is part of the reason that I'm such a Grammar Nazi, it's my life. It may sound strange, but writing is part of who I am.
       The only flaw in all of this is that I'm not very good at it. I can write short stories, and make normal instances in life seem more interesting just by changing a couple of words. I can create a fleeting sense of power, but it only lasts for a few paragraphs. I can't write anything over 10 pages that would entertain people at all. I've tried plenty of times, but the plots become obscure, the characters change periodically. The story ends up going no where, and the writings become a pointless mess.
        In elementary school, my dream was to make a living off of writing, I wanted to be an author. A dream that very few people reach and can thrive off of.
        So instead I chose Pharmacy as my career to shoot for. It pays well, the hiring outlook is always great, and I'm good at the sciences it requires. I looked into it, and I would be really happy doing it. Though, it doesn't have the same appeal to it as writing does. Not even close.
      But in the world we live in today, nothing has anything to do with what appeals to us. If the future were to go with my ideals, you would see me with a husband that thoroughly enjoyed his job. I would be living in a fun city by the ocean. My house would be comfortable and I'd stay at home with my two kids. Writing would be for entertainment and I wouldn't be required to make a life out of it. It'd just be for a blog or small magazine.
       But the world is difficult and doesn't give people their ideals. We spend our childhood preparing for adulthood, and spend the rest of life working to live. We wait for a future of happiness and what will happen tomorrow, passing up the life we're living now...
        ... This is when the satisfaction usually sinks in. When I've made my point and written all that I've been needing to say, when a small burden or pessimistic thought is lifted from my chest...
Sometimes, like right now, I'll laugh thinking about how the whole post started.
       The world works in interesting ways doesn't it?