I want to save the world. Sounds rather cliché, doesn’t it? Well, be that as it may, it’s true. I just can’t seem to get a handle on successfully pulling it off. Between being strapped for cash, having to go to college, and actually managing to pass exams, I’ve gotten precious little done. Excuses, excuses. This just adds to my frustration. To top it off, I haven’t the required patience to simply wait until my degree is finished, and then utilizing it in my pursuits. Nope. I’ve gotta do everything all at once or it means nothing in the end.
I’m convinced all those who know me think me mad. They see me muttering vaguely to myself, jotting down odd little notes on scraps of papers, and gesturing wildly to my laptop screen as I attempt to write. They listen to me wax poetic over inane topics, quote dead philosophers, and harp on about various political events currently rocking the world. I can’t help it. Most of all, it drives my parents crazy that regardless of the fact that they’ve sent their daughter to medical school, she spends more time reading the news than she does her textbooks. There’s just so much going on around me, so much to write about, to discuss, to debate. Can you blame me for getting distracted?
It doesn’t help that I can’t turn it off. Seems the mere sight of something is enough to start the internal monologue which is bent on diverting my attention by describing my surroundings with various colorful alliterations and adjectives. Even when I’m simply talking to someone, I’m not free of it. I replay the words being said in my head, and then add expressions, punctuation, and feeling. There’s never a time that my mind isn’t dissecting the universe. During exams and when I’m studying, my inner spell check and grammar editor are in full swing, mentally correcting the mistakes.
Any free time between class or while waiting for class to start, I crack open a book that I’ve managed to stuff in my apron pocket and try to cram in a word or two before having to return to reality. If I don’t feel like reading, then I’m penning random thoughts down on the last few pages of my notebooks. Sometimes if a lecture is boring, then the margins of the page I should be filling with medical mumbo-jumbo are instead lined with quotations, lyrics, and nonsensical words. How I manage to get my work done is beyond me. I guess life is more exciting when there’s a ton of things to do.
I want to take a break from the mundane hospital setting every once in while and put together a documentary or two on the plight of the individuals being treated. I want to scribble down their thoughts, their dreams. I want to roam the streets with a camera slung across my shoulder as I take the in city, the people, the culture. There just so much to understand, stuff we easily forget about as we go about our daily tasks. I don’t think you can really be a good doctor until you understand people you treat completely and totally. You’ve got to get a feel for their lives, their fears. Seems all we’re ever taught is to treat the disease; no one thinks too much in regards to the patient, not really. The conditions don’t allow for it.
My best friend finds humor in my future plans and the frantic way in which I worry as to whether or not I’ll be able to complete everything I hope to do. She tells me to not fret, and that I can always be the next Dr. Sanjay Gupta. I always laugh, and admit that I’d always hoped to be more like Chekhov.
The fact of the matter is, what I do is a hard act to keep up with. Sometimes I get overwhelmed and wonder if perhaps I should just stop writing altogether. I mean, it’s not like I’ll become the next Jennings, Cronkite, or Murrow. I’ll never anchor World News Tonight. My ever getting short-listed for a Pulitzer is doubtful.
Hidden away in my wooden cabinet, silently mocking me, are the words I prefer to peruse. They keep me sane, but at the same time are the sources of my mental unrest. They reignite my aspirations, kindle my hopes, and fuel my desires. My vain attempt at continually putting off what I feel is my calling for a later date will be my undoing. My juvenile views on the passage of time dig into my side, gnawing away at me, crippling me.
Should I just stop? It isn’t exactly quitting seeing how I’ve no one to miss me. A party of one, alone at sea, scribbling away to the doldrums in my mind. But sometimes this is my only way to properly vent my spleen, to get out what I want to say, even if no one else is reading. More often than not, I feel that I am nothing but a pretender to a throne that I have no chance of ever attaining. My ambitions, my passions, lack heart.
Granted, I look at life differently. I examine things from obscure angles. Frivolous matters trouble me. I want nothing more than to rectify all the faults I see around me. I want to revolutionize thinking. But what I fail to realize is that few could care less what I think. I simply don’t matter. So either I continue to play second-fiddle to the devoted in my field, or I toss aside these childish wants in exchange for stability. The sensible choice is obvious.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been one for sense. Seems the only treatment for this case of acute indecision is to change nothing and go on as before with cheeky commentary on the world at large, waste time on day dreaming about the books I’ll one day write, and overall live life without a concrete plan. It’s never any fun to simply do as you’re told. You’ve gotta mix it up every once in a while. And in case of any recurrence of doubt in regards to this plan, I’ll appreciate a good and swift kick to get me back on track by any willing soul.
Maybe somewhere down the road I’ll look back and think that it might have been a better idea if I had concentrated more on my intended career. But the fact of the matter is even though I know that I don’t pay half the attention I should, it doesn’t faze me. What I need to get a hang of is being able to focusing on my studies at the right time and moment, and then going back to my balancing act. That, I fear, is easier said than done.
I’m convinced all those who know me think me mad. They see me muttering vaguely to myself, jotting down odd little notes on scraps of papers, and gesturing wildly to my laptop screen as I attempt to write. They listen to me wax poetic over inane topics, quote dead philosophers, and harp on about various political events currently rocking the world. I can’t help it. Most of all, it drives my parents crazy that regardless of the fact that they’ve sent their daughter to medical school, she spends more time reading the news than she does her textbooks. There’s just so much going on around me, so much to write about, to discuss, to debate. Can you blame me for getting distracted?
It doesn’t help that I can’t turn it off. Seems the mere sight of something is enough to start the internal monologue which is bent on diverting my attention by describing my surroundings with various colorful alliterations and adjectives. Even when I’m simply talking to someone, I’m not free of it. I replay the words being said in my head, and then add expressions, punctuation, and feeling. There’s never a time that my mind isn’t dissecting the universe. During exams and when I’m studying, my inner spell check and grammar editor are in full swing, mentally correcting the mistakes.
Any free time between class or while waiting for class to start, I crack open a book that I’ve managed to stuff in my apron pocket and try to cram in a word or two before having to return to reality. If I don’t feel like reading, then I’m penning random thoughts down on the last few pages of my notebooks. Sometimes if a lecture is boring, then the margins of the page I should be filling with medical mumbo-jumbo are instead lined with quotations, lyrics, and nonsensical words. How I manage to get my work done is beyond me. I guess life is more exciting when there’s a ton of things to do.
I want to take a break from the mundane hospital setting every once in while and put together a documentary or two on the plight of the individuals being treated. I want to scribble down their thoughts, their dreams. I want to roam the streets with a camera slung across my shoulder as I take the in city, the people, the culture. There just so much to understand, stuff we easily forget about as we go about our daily tasks. I don’t think you can really be a good doctor until you understand people you treat completely and totally. You’ve got to get a feel for their lives, their fears. Seems all we’re ever taught is to treat the disease; no one thinks too much in regards to the patient, not really. The conditions don’t allow for it.
My best friend finds humor in my future plans and the frantic way in which I worry as to whether or not I’ll be able to complete everything I hope to do. She tells me to not fret, and that I can always be the next Dr. Sanjay Gupta. I always laugh, and admit that I’d always hoped to be more like Chekhov.
The fact of the matter is, what I do is a hard act to keep up with. Sometimes I get overwhelmed and wonder if perhaps I should just stop writing altogether. I mean, it’s not like I’ll become the next Jennings, Cronkite, or Murrow. I’ll never anchor World News Tonight. My ever getting short-listed for a Pulitzer is doubtful.
Hidden away in my wooden cabinet, silently mocking me, are the words I prefer to peruse. They keep me sane, but at the same time are the sources of my mental unrest. They reignite my aspirations, kindle my hopes, and fuel my desires. My vain attempt at continually putting off what I feel is my calling for a later date will be my undoing. My juvenile views on the passage of time dig into my side, gnawing away at me, crippling me.
Should I just stop? It isn’t exactly quitting seeing how I’ve no one to miss me. A party of one, alone at sea, scribbling away to the doldrums in my mind. But sometimes this is my only way to properly vent my spleen, to get out what I want to say, even if no one else is reading. More often than not, I feel that I am nothing but a pretender to a throne that I have no chance of ever attaining. My ambitions, my passions, lack heart.
Granted, I look at life differently. I examine things from obscure angles. Frivolous matters trouble me. I want nothing more than to rectify all the faults I see around me. I want to revolutionize thinking. But what I fail to realize is that few could care less what I think. I simply don’t matter. So either I continue to play second-fiddle to the devoted in my field, or I toss aside these childish wants in exchange for stability. The sensible choice is obvious.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been one for sense. Seems the only treatment for this case of acute indecision is to change nothing and go on as before with cheeky commentary on the world at large, waste time on day dreaming about the books I’ll one day write, and overall live life without a concrete plan. It’s never any fun to simply do as you’re told. You’ve gotta mix it up every once in a while. And in case of any recurrence of doubt in regards to this plan, I’ll appreciate a good and swift kick to get me back on track by any willing soul.
Maybe somewhere down the road I’ll look back and think that it might have been a better idea if I had concentrated more on my intended career. But the fact of the matter is even though I know that I don’t pay half the attention I should, it doesn’t faze me. What I need to get a hang of is being able to focusing on my studies at the right time and moment, and then going back to my balancing act. That, I fear, is easier said than done.