These Dreams.

"You're such a writer. I don't know why you're studying nursing," he says.
I don't know either, I want to say... but that's a lie. I do know. I know that I'm insecure about my ability to tack down my creativity, to reign it in to make a living for myself. My hands are steady enough, and my mind finds something oddly appealing about being able to be grounded, to know sensible things... the Dana Scully-ness of it all, the clinical precision and cleanliness.
I know, though, that I can't stay in it for long. I need it to fall back on, to know that it's solid behind me, like a rock wall, or there to catch me below, like a trapeze artist's net.
I know that my calling is not in the medical field. I know it for a fact, but it's all right. For now, it's all right.