getting over it

My latest epiphanies have been like a blade. They’re solid, something to be trusted, but I know could cut myself open with them if I’m not careful.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. Sure, I never told the careers counsellor that at school, because only lonely hopefuls want to be writers, and hardly any of them ever achieve that elusive novel that is locked away in their brains, somewhere behind a synapse and a cauliflower looking object.

I’m now almost certain that I will never be a writer. Not in the sense that I used to dream of anyway. A lot of things have changed since I was a girl. I used to dream of travelling the world, one country at a time. Breathing in the spices of India, touching the dirt of Argentina, tasting the slightly off-the-mark flavours that have names I would never comprehend... but I don’t dream that anymore.

I’m not sure if it was because of the experiences I had in the northern states of America and Canada... but that may be part of it. I think I just realise that I’ve changed.

It’s not a bad thing. I know things now that I couldn’t have when I was a girl.
Just because you see an entire dark, glistening mud cake with strawberries on top, doesn’t mean you have to eat the entire thing.

I can travel occasionally. I don’t have to do it all the time, and I don’t need to go everywhere. I can write my own style, but I don’t need to be published, and I don’t need to make it my entire career. And I think that being a little more like everyone else, won’t necessarily be the scariest thing in the world... even if that means that people don’t think I’m the unique, curious little thing anymore.

I don’t need the dreams I had when I was a little girl, because I’m a "big girl" now, and I can walk the road less travelled in a way that means I don't have to see the destination, and that, just like Frost wrote, won’t be such a bad thing.