He’s a doctor. His education is framed on a wall and his pants have perfect creases. He spends weekends at cabins on the lake but indulges in at least one big vacation a year, Mexico or maybe Europe.
He’s the artist. He lives at home under the roof he was raised and his dreams now come attached to thousands of dollars in student loan debt. He wakes early and stays up late. His fuel is that dream and he’ll put all he has into landing that break.
Somewhere, I am in the middle of these two men, both about my age. Once, I was the one with a stable job and income, although nothing comparable to a doctor and I proudly displayed my degree in my car.
Yet, I was also the creative one, striving for a dream and starving myself in the process.
Now, I am not sure what I am. I am wanderlust, pieces of me scattered across continents. If the doctor’s purpose is to create a safe standard of living and the artist’s purpose is to live his passion, then what is my purpose? Maybe it’s to better the world. Maybe it’s to survive the world.
I could be on either side of the pendulum, but, instead, I’m the one swinging, never knowing where I’ll land. Some may think that it’s by choice, but it’s my design. This is the path that was paved for me, so I’ll ride it even if it seems absurd to doctors and artists.