C’est la vie (an overtly pretentious sigh)

I enjoy writing. And I wish so dearly to write all my life; to craft a career out of it or at least have a job in the future that allows for a less than mundane expression of thought. But it sometimes seems as if merely being able to write properly isn’t enough.

Everyone can write, some more prolifically than others, and yet inasmuch as they are possessive of good writing skills, their forte lies not in writing but in skills more technical and substantive. To have a career be built out of writing alone, that is to become a notable professional journalist or an author of an appraised book, appears then to require exceptional eloquence or a fashionably unique style that cannot easily be mimicked. This unfortunately, I do not think I have. So I have considered alternatives, such as in the study of social sciences (law is beyond my capabilities) wherein I will be granted the liberty to discourse as expansively as I please and in fanciful, flavorful prose, and be not bridled by the severe lack of space so inherent in writings of the most banal sort, like emails or financial reports.

But alas, societal pressures thwart all such plans. It is generally thought that the most probable outcome of having studied a social science is unemployment or landing a job that pays pathetically. Society hungers not for those who understand it well but for those who are able to run it; accountants, engineers, computer programmers, bankers and all the likes. And so here I am, pressured into melding myself into the cog that society requires and forced to disregard the muffled wails of my passion. C’est la vie.

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