"The words come halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows...

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite

'Fool,' said my Muse to me; 'Look in they heart and write.'" ~Sir Phillip Sidney

I wanted to share the entire quote with you. I fell in love with this quote last night, probably because it just speaks to me. You should all know by now that I want to be a writer (so long as it's not a journalist *shudder*).

When I was a little kid, I wanted to be so many things...an astronaut, a libraian, a teacher, a crocodile hunteress. But one by one, I have given up on those fantasies of mine...they were never dreams. It all comes down to this...I know I was born to write. I wrote my first poem in fourth grade. By the time I was 11, I knew that this is what I wanted to do with my life. Just to sit quiet for hours a day, away from it all, and be alone...to think and be myself...and create. Create entire worlds, all coming from my mind, going through my arm and flowing through the ink in my pen.

I collect pens. Strange, I know. But I have an odd sort of appreciation for them.

But now...

If you know what your destiny is, you've known it since you were born, wouldn't you hope against hope and wish against wish to reach it? But now, I feel I can't meet my own destiny. Fate's tricky enough as it is, doubts just make it even worse.

I don't exactly believe in Fate or Destiny, but I do believe that there is something within me that tells me...this is my purpose in life. This is what I was meant to do. Then, you start to doubt yourself. Who was it that said, "If writers had as much sense and businessmen, then they wouldn't be writers." I still think Fate is a load of crap, until it comes to this. Maybe in ten years,  this vision of mine will come true:

It is an early morning on your day off. You stop in Barnes & Nobel to get a coffee and maybe look at a book. The sky is grey, and serves as a mirror for your thoughts. You think back to high school, and back to your class. You wonder what happened to all your friends, and the people that weren't exactly your friends.

You think about them all, sometimes forgetting names. You think back to the small blond girl. She was awkward, quiet, a little weird. She wasn't one to join in group actvities much, strictly a loner-save her few friends. You wonder what happened to her...how was the world treating her? She was so small, and the world is so big. You frown, trying to remember her name.

Then, suddenly you remember. You remember because as you walk over to the table that says "New Releases" on a blue sign hanging over it, you see her name.

It is on the cover of that book.

Maybe someday...

For now, I can just be me.

And when the days are hard and long,

And I don't even have time to breathe or think,

I know that there is a corner in my room,

At the end of my bed, my back to the radiator

Waiting just for me

To sit there, on the floor, pen in my eager hands

Words becoming worlds,

And at last, there is freedom in this world...

Freedom in this world because I have created another.

Sorry about the poem in the end, I just couldn't resist! ^^;;;