What do you want to be?

These same questions have been thrust at me many times in the past couple of weeks: What do I want to be? What do I want to do? I thought I didn't know, or rather I'd like to have not known. It seems that empty, transient feeling of anxiety seemed to still paralyse my being into some belligerent catatonic state. Pray, no more! I'm done, honest-to-god! I've had to scream out my passions, and not just the superficial. By no means am I there, but I know what I must say - I WANT TO BE A WRITER. I WANT TO BE FREE. It's hard. I have already diverted from the narrative of my peers, by withdrawing from my degree course and releasing dreams of escape. I've rebelled, in the most passive way possible. Bravery is not the word, but neither is cowardice. I'm gaining the ability to hold posession of self. I had to recapture who I was, in order to determine who I may become. All the congratulations have faded and I'm aware of the scrutiny I will now be under; a what-the-hell-does-she-think-she's-doing? I'm not wrong, but my mistakes do seem to follow a peculiar timeline. There is no more time to be lost, only time to expose myself to the frivolity of life.