In 300 years, everyone who knew you and everyone they know will be dead.
Ever since the beginning of senior year, it seems like I’ve been inching closer to the edge of a grassy cliff. The rest of our lives keep nearing…The sad but beautiful thing is that the possibilities are endless. What scares me is the idea of giving up infinity to focus on one single career.
It would be wonderful to:
—open a hotel/bed-and-breakfast
—run a corner bookstore in a big city
—become a capable doctor and save lives for a living
—teach.
—be a radio host on NPR
—own a flower shop or book store
—write and illustrate children’s books
One of my farthest-flung out dreams is kind of silly, so I don’t mind if you laugh. One day I daydreamed about opening a sort of Solving Your Life Problems INC.— a giant building full of busy, friendly workers. People calling with problems. We give them advice. We send out teams to work with in-depth cases like domestic abuse or potential suicides.
I guess that’s what social workers and suicide hotlines are for, but it never hurts to dream…
For the longest time, I’ve just wanted to dedicate my life to something lasting. Something that would affect all humankind for the rest of eternity (da da da dumm!) But, how much does it really matter to be remembered? To want your name to be tucked away in a medical textbook or history book for posterity? Those names to us now are just vague names tacked onto theories and formulas in fine print.
Maybe it means more to make a difference in people’s lives while you’re alive. Yes, one day you’ll be dead. And so will the people who you have helped. But if you could make their life better, it extends to their family, the children of their children, etc. That’s a true permanent, lasting effect on life.
As long as we do our jobs well, and feel accomplished and significant in the well-being of the world, we add more happiness to life’s general equation.
To sum it up: I have a desperate need to do something important and touch the lives of other people. It feels like I’m running around in a giant field at night trying to catch fireflies.
I’m afraid that I’ll give up my creative tendancies and smother them in pursuing an “important and effective job”. I know I’ll be unhappy this way.
My mom wants me to be a doctor. I’m halfway convinced. But the back of my head betrays me, telling me that my best subjects are history and language, not science and math. Telling me that I’m always the happiest playing music or splattering paint on a canvas. Creating something.
So why the hell would I want to be a doctor.
I want to help people, I do. But I’m not sure if that joy of helping others would be enough to cover up the disappointment of following my dreams…
Oh what am I doing what am I doing
