deep thoughts

I've been seriously examining my existence. The shoes of my soul-searching are battered by the constant kicking of my self esteem. I've got questions.

First of all (and of the least importance), should I go back to school? Pursue a more fulfilling career? Do something that gives myself meaning? Join a Guatemalan paramilitary group?

And all this questioning muckrakes other disturbing quandaries. Why do I write? What compels this desire... Why do tiny fragments of prose spring uninvited and unevictable from my brain. Like today, folding laundry: His face betrayed mistrust, like a dog with ears pinned back. Or unwritten stories that could go anywhere: I'm not going to divulge the one that popped into my head earlier, because I don't like to spoil surprises.

Does this all mean something? Am I supposed to pursue this, and if so, how will I eat? Or do most people have this and just not remember it a moment later.