Reality Checks and Real Cheques

When aspirations take a turn, one must insist that they are not for the worst. In a few months I will be rejoining the student ranks, a position I had easily discarded the moment I crossed the newly buffed wooden stage and received that piece of paper. The 'now what?' feeling I had experienced was earnestly followed by the kind of panic that makes you forget that you actually had dreams somewhere.

Words have always come easily to me. The same way athletes enjoy burning muscles, and thespians the buzz of the crowd, words have always been a form of salvation. When I was younger I hubristically fancied myself a god of sorts, able to decide which characters of my own creation I would lead to suffering, longing and the inevitability of death.

And now my own form of deus ex machina appeared in the haze of the media's own version of Armageddon, studded not with Affleck and Aerosmith, but freelance freezes and layoffs set to the music of a Mac being ceremoniously shutdown.

My mother did warn me though. "Writing can be your hobby, your thing on the side," She would vehemently stress. I would push her assertions aside as easily as tucking hair behind my ear. She just didn't understand, I beleived.

Less than an hour ago I found myself accepting an offer for a program that had found me. While perusing the internet one afternoon, in between job postings of course, I had come across the resume of a very random person who I have never met but whose educational and occupational history clearly mimicked my own. It was a surreal checklist that felt like deja vu and looking into the future at the same time. A career I had never quite imagined (not for myself, or in general) had suddenly risen in the ranks of my consciousness. After much deliberation, consistent research and a handful of chats with the Gentleman Upstairs, I became reacquainted with my potential.

I have always believed in karma, but this time I choose to extrapolate that belief unto myself.