I Have No Idea What I'm Doing (By Eve Curras)

     I have been waiting to have an epiphany for 15 damn years.  I have been patient, exceedingly patient, and yet I sit here writing this blog post with no more of an inclination as to what I'm going to do than I've ever had.  The question that weighs so heavily on my mind does not have a simple solution, and if it does, who in the heck knows why I haven't come to the conclusion yet.  I, like many of my fellow peers, have no idea what I'm going to do with my life.

     My mother is a pastor and she has described to me numerous times the moment she knew that the church was for her.  She felt that God was calling her into ministry-- that there was some mysterious force that told her precisely what she was to do in life.  My father is an accountant, and he assures me there was no other career that better-suited him.  He's never had any doubts.  My brother is going off to college this year and will be majoring in Computer Science and Information Technology.  He's always been good with computers and it wasn't hard to pinpoint where his interests lied.  So that leaves all the heads turned towards me, and I feel like I'm lying to my family and myself if I pretend to have a clue as to what path I want to go down.

     It feels as though the metaphorical "Life" has taken a physical form and is beating me in a chess game.  Like this big person with a ticking clock instead of a head is always staring at me and chanting the words "your turn."  Okay, that's an exaggeration, but needless to say-- the pressure is on.  

     I've always loved writing.  I've written in total 4 books, 2 of which I wrote with my cousin.  They're all crappy and embarrassing, and if anyone ever read them I might actually die, but I look on them fondly.  I have a slightly odd admiration for the characters I've created, even though I will only ever know them.  My mother has always been a stanch believer that I should do what I love or I'll regret it.  I've always been grateful that she pushed me to do what I love and write, but I've always thought it was unrealistic.  The last thing I want is to become a "starving artist."

     But as time goes on, I'm realizing how important it is to do what you love.  Whenever I bring up becoming a doctor, my mother will scoff.  "Surely you'll be rich," she'll say, "but will you be happy?" As I look up from the computer that I'm writing this on and I see the ticking clock sitting across from me, I feel more lost than ever, and in some ways, more sure than ever.  I don't expect to feel God's guiding hand anymore.  I've been waiting for that for 15 years.  It's odd, but for the first time ever, I don't care about winning the chess game.  I care about doing what I love, and if that means writing poetry in an NYC apartment that smells like cat liter and only has 2 rooms, then so be it.