Thinking too much

Too often, we wonder what will become of us in the future instead of the now. Sure, we all want to make something of ourselves, to be certain that we are able to understand clearly what are goals and objectives are regarding life and dreams. To meet that special person (if we haven’t already) and just plan the course of our lives. Of course, it doesn’t always work this way. Sometimes, we think that if we just held firm to what we know then everything would be alright. That is not always the case. In fact, sometimes it is the exact opposite. Sometimes, the things we hold close to us fall apart and with it our plans for the future.

Not everything is set in stone. Not everyone knows what will become of them. Whether you are a doctor, teacher, or engineer you are working everyday towards something you feel will impact your life in a positive way. Take journalists for instance, they work to bring the best story possible through the best means possible. There is always a fine line between what might be considered real and fictional, but journalists are essentially writers and storytellers trying to do their best to make sure a story is told from the right angle and sources are credible. This is a hard life, but it is rewarding for those that know exactly what they are doing at the exact moment in time. As I work to become more an experienced journalist, I began to see that I still have much to learn. Until then, I guess I will keep studying and trying to work as best as I can to get somewhere so that I can start.

I’ll leave you with a short, reflective poem (a dirge, to some. An epithet by others).

Queen-Ann’s Lace by William Carlos Williams

Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth–nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibers of her being
stem one by one, each to its end
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over–
or nothing.


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