I’ve got a folder on my email account labeled, “College.”

How’s that for a reality check?

 

I’m growing up.

 

I’ve always been aware of the process.

 

I’ve sat for the song.

 

I’ve blown out the candles.

 

This is not the same.

 

This is a whole other trip and I’m petrified because I’m driving.

 

I can’t get out the car without shaking.

 

I’ve got family members inquiring about my career plans.

 

The days when I played dress up, going from princess to spy to veterinarian, flash back and forth like blinkers.

 

I’ve considered being an actress on Disney Channel with a glow-stick in my right hand as I 

perfectly executed an outline of a Mickey Mouse head.

 

I’ve put on shows.

 

I’ve signed autographs.

 

This is not the same.

 

I’m not being questioned about my dreams.

 

I’m being questioned about what’s going to make me money.

 

I can still picture the days when it was possible to do both.

 

This is a whole other trip and I’m confused because I want to go a way that’s contrary to what the GPS is saying.

 

I’ve got a desk filled with my plans for novels, poems, and books I’ve composed in composition books.

 

I’m told writing will make a good hobby.

 

I thought I was driving?

 

My hands are on the wheel, aren’t they?

 

The GPS has brought me to the place I’m told I’m supposed to be.

 

Yet, I feel so lost.

 

 My pen is supposed to be traded for something more practical and realistic.

 

Anyone who says those two words should have his/her mouth washed out with soap.

 

This is not the same.

 

I thought I was driving?

 

My hands are on the wheel, aren’t they?