The Words.

I told her that I didn’t want to do it my whole life.

I told her that I wanted to try writing at some point in my life.

The feint, dim, yellow light shone over the table.

It was an exact replication of the light that sat on my desk. Its shade was a mix between brown and maroon.

It was almost a clay color.

But as we sat there, her eyes looking back into mine, it was almost as if I had no fear in admitting I went wrong somewhere in my life path.

I had no fear in saying that what I was doing was just filler.

I wanted to write.

 

You Live Only Once. Not You Only Live Once.

Walking out of the movie theatre today, I mentioned to my friend, with whom I shared this man date with, that it was almost August. He noted that school was going to be starting soon and how summer had passed almost completely by now. I told him not to fret because he still had two years left to go. For me, I only had one year left in my college career before I would move on and embark on the journey of life after schooling.

“That is crazy,” he said, “but I still don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

“Neither do I,” I conceded.

“But you are practically student teaching.”

I shrugged my shoulders and made a sound to acknowledge his comment.

“I always wanted to be a writer.”