Lately I've been asking myself a lot of questions. Looking for signs.
Am I really a writer? I love to write. But that doesn't make a person qualified. At times what I come up with is halfway decent. But . . . is this really my profession? The numbers tell me no. Dead end. Quit while you're ahead, honey. And part of me is so relieved to get this kind of confirmation from the universe. Okay, got it. Stop writing. But then, what do I do? I have to keep busy. No more messing around. It's time to find an occupation that will pay the bills. What is it? Music wasn't exactly fruitful for me. Art?
More dead ends.
Ah, Life. Why didn't you tell me this years ago? Or did you, and I wasn't willing to listen?
We should all come with a guidebook at birth with step-by-step instructions: "Pick this job, don't get into that relationship, don't buy that car, it's time to ask for a raise . . ."
Have you ever experienced a moment in your life where you were forced to question everything?