I wrote this in a notebook. Yesterday.
It strikes me that this is the first time in months I've tried to write creatively. Used to be a daily, then weekly, habit. Used to regularly crack out poems. Might've been full of teenage angst, but Christ, at least it was ink on paper. Ink not scribbled in or directly inspired by a school assignment. Those poems were me, more than anything else, anyway. Back then, a more gloating me might've called himself a poet, little shit.
That's the thing about then-me becoming now-me, at every stage I'm exactly who I thought I'd be at the last one.
Changes, expected and realized, were not particularly great or, on the other hand, damming. I wasn't dreaming of any grandiose achievement; and, let's be honest, such events have not transpired.
But now, looking back, I feel a warm confidence: I've been right so far, and at the moment, looking forward, I expect to be happy, productive. And writing.
It's an awkward thing, to see it written like that. That I wrote it, it's that much more founded. Not nearly a total foundation, not yet stone, this minor firming of the notion is only the second; preceded, by six months, by my declaring an English major.
It's a scary proposition: trying to imagine putting "Writer" in the, yet vacant, [CAREER] box. But it is a good career, for those that can write. People sometimes think I can, who knows? Sounds fun thought, doing this, just this. Whatever loaf the old brain pinches out onto the page. This being a means to support myself? A family? A pet? Or, most importantly, my expensive hobbies? Almost sounds crazy enough to work and easy enough to do.