It's Day 1 of finishing my job and preparing for going to nursing school. I feel sort of melancholy. It's a big change that I'm preparing for and I wonder, even now, if I'm making the right choice. When I declare, "I'm going to be a nurse!" to my mother she says, "Shh, don't say that yet. Wait until you're finished school first." I think she still expects me to pipe up, "I'm going to be an artist!" It was, after all, what happened many years ago when I left my university years behind and went to art school.Why flounder from one career to another flapping noisily like a fish out of water? But I can't seem to catch my breath. Before the ink even dries on another degree or diploma, it seems I've decided I want to do something else.
And so the journey continues to find a career I can call home. Where I can set up shop, lay out my skills, and say, "My isn't it a nice day? I'd like to stay here forever doing this!" Will it ever happen?
So I gather up my art supplies, set them aside, and make room for the tower of books behind which I shall hide for the next 4 years. They say time will fly and that I'll be glad of my decision in the end, and I certainly hope they'll be right. Perhaps some pencil crayons, a pencil, and some fabric shall be my comfort. I can make fantastical new creations in the deep of night when the books are closed and my exams are studied for. I am quite certain art will never leave me.
But the ghost of many lost nights haunts me with its tempting framed portrait. "You did this," it says. "You have the skills. Why do you forsake them now?" I hurl insults at it, gobs of paint, and maybe a mini brass brad or two.
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