I Found Myself In A Coffee Shop

I went to Borders last night; bought a magazine and some coffee. The girl at the register looked down at the magazine entitled "The Writer" and asked, "Are you a writer?"

I admit, I was caught a little off guard; both at the fact that she would assume I must be a writer because of the magazine I was purchasing (if it was called "The Big Rig Driver" would she ask if I drove big rigs?) and because of the pointed question itself. So I thought to myself, "Am I a writer?" I halted that line of thought as I noticed her staring at me, waiting for an answer.

"Well, I try." I said.

"Yeah, me too." She replied.

I suppose none of this would matter except that the very reason I went to the book store was to sit in the coffee shop and ponder what in the world I was doing with my life and why I had seemingly abandoned all that ever meant anything to me.

All my life I've wanted to be a writer. I have journals dating as far back as... well, far back. I've been writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil and form letters on a page. No one taught me, I just did it. My greatest memory of high school was the creative writing class I took my sophomore year. And though that was almost nine years ago, when I think about the times in my life that mean anything to me, that one always comes up. When I graduated high school, I couldn't figure out what to do with my life and had no cause to go to college, until someone encouraged me to pursue my dream without worry of what the world thought. So I started college as an English major so I could write.

Now I'm 24 and have transferred to a university as a Business major and all I have to show as a decent manuscript is this blog? What happened? How did I end up here? At what point did I decide to give up? And how did I not notice? Those are the questions I pondered as I sat there in that coffee shop. I'd like to say I left that night with answers, but all I found were more questions.

How is it that the very lines which define our being, are the ones we try so hard to erase?
When do we decide to disengage the ones who help us breath?
What makes us give up hope in the very things which defined the hope of who we are?
Why do we trade the essence of ourselves for the picture of who we're not?
What do you do when you look up and see how far away from yourself you are?
How do you get back?