decisions decisions

I can't decide what to do with the rest of my life. A really big part of me wants to be in academia for the rest of my life, writing and being fully engrossed in the literature and fostering other young talents. But I just don't know if I have what it takes. I want to go to BU and do their creative writing program. I want to be in Boston doing that, in the cold cold winter with the nasty mean people who have niceties hidden underneath their scars. I want something good and magical and not torn apart and hurting.

Although on the other hand I want to help little kids, be a mentor and an advocate. Become a social worker, a therapist, something so I can help them see who they are. Maybe the answer is to write young adult fiction? Maybe is that what it is? Go get an MFA, dabble in some young adult fiction and volunteer or do therapy work on the side? Writing is always something that will be deep deep inside me, something that will grow and growl and yell when I stop paying attention to it for long enough. I need it, like air and water, it helps me feel like me.

This is the thing. The fundamental part of it all. Words move me, move within me, move time around me. Words are the piece and the puzzle in its entirety, they are my being. Instead of skin I might as well just have words inked everywhere because without them I am nothing, it is my mode of communication, not pen, not paint, not dance, words. I can make you feel things you didn't think you knew how to with words. They move me to emotions I forgot I had buried inside because the words dig like shovels, like tiny hands digging sand up up up from the beach to unearth the water running smoothly down there. Words, often, are all I have. I can't let them go.