Last night a thought crept into my mind: "At what point do I call it quits?"
At what point do I admit to myself that I was never destined to be a writer, that the stories I create in my head were never meant to be printed for anyone but me to read, that I should just keep my ramblings to myself?
At what point do I take off my childish shorts and pull up my adult pants, put on my adult shirt, tie the adult tie around my neck, and slide into that adult suit jacket gathering dust in my closet?
At what point do I wash these silly ideas out of my head, remove these dreams, stop recycling these five-year plans, and accept that my life is no different than the billions of other lives going on around me?
At what point do I finally let the advice of everyone around me soak in, advise that I need to get a real job with a real salary and real benefits, and finally become that real boy I was told about in my youth and college classrooms?
At what point do I grow the fuck up?
I don't know.
But I don't think I'm ready yet.