I sit here and ponder ( a thing I like to do a lot to fuck my head over) what it is that I wanted, really wanted to do with my life. Am I really doing that or living someone else's dream? For as long as I can remember the only thing that has ever made sense to me has been writing. Words are coherent. Words are definite. Words don't cheat on you, ever. I've had a way with them. They've never betrayed me. They understand me just as well as I comprehend them. They make my emotions explainable, well almost. They let me express myself. They say a musician's music speaks to the world; a dramatist's eyes and actions speak to the people; my words spoke to the universe. But more importantly, they spoke to me. In the silence of the night, in the dark, in the shadows.. in the gloomy mornings, in the late afternoon, in the dusk and the dawn.. in the first rays of the sun, in the last faint outlines of the moon.. it was words in my head, words in my mind, scribbles on papers, that got me through. Does that make me a writer then? I think not.
my words were never for an audience, as much as they've been loved by them. They've always been a private thing, like a connection that only I could share. Nobody who reads what I write could know exactly what I mean at the moment. why? Because I don't let them. There's a mystery in everything I've ever written that neither my best friend nor a total stranger can ever fully know. It may be a line, it may be a word or it may just be the hint of something.. you'll never know. because words for me were like my personal property. nobody else quite has the right to them like I do. Does this then make me a writer? I think not.
When a serious professional career was what people started talking about first, words were what came to my rescue again. That was what I wanted to be. That is what a part of me will always want to be. A journalist or a reporter? I don't quite know if it's that. But anybody who gets to write, is somebody blessed I feel. I would swap places with them, give my right arm to be were they are. why then did I give it up before even starting it? why did a dreamer like me not struggle for her one dream? was I oppressed and forced into submission? Do these circumstances make me the apt material for a writer? I think not.
I'm not a sad story who has given up on her dreams for the greater good.
This is for all of you there who ask me repeatedly why I am not a writer. Because I want to be a doctor. As simple as that. I want to save lives. As naive as that sounds, that for me is something which will give me a rush higher than any drug in this world. But the more I see of the so called aspiring doctors around me, the more uncertain I get. The people who're in it now are in it for the money, for the prestige, for the respect. All the wrong reasons. All the selfish reasons in the one profession that is supposed to be the most selfless. why is no one becoming a doctor for the basic reason? to do good? I don't think I am competent enough to run in this mad race, compete with people who have backtoback eighteen hour days, people who go without food, sleep, recreation in order to finally just become a money minting machine.
But this is the life I chose for myself. I gave up one dream for another. Besides, words can never desert me. they've been my loyalest friend for a decade now. I know them, they know me. through and through. and we have an unsaid understanding. they come to me, when I need them most, when I think of them least, when I want them not. always.
They however cannot answer this one question for me that seems to linger in my mind, more often than I'd like for it to stay:
What am I doing here?
I don't belong here.