Thursday, January 19, 2012


So my first week of my degree life is almost over.

On the forefront, it does seem like studying Law is going to be very exciting, particularly as it does concern many very common current issues such as crimes, contracts, libel and defamation etc. More importantly, it'll give me valuable knowledge about how to avoid being sued, and how to sue others. (Though hopefully nothing will come to that.)

On the other hand, all the lecturers have emphasized on the importance of staying updated with the law, cases, and policies, not just in the UK or Malaysia, but in other common law jurisdictions as well. This has not yet included the necessary research (read : blatant plagiarism) on journals and articles by judges and legal academics.

In a nutshell, readreadread until your poor strained eyes can take it no more.

This is, however, not yet another long-winded rant post complaining about the workload. Yet. The academic year is still new, the bright shiny optimism is still present and checked, and there's still a buzz of excitement about the new classes.

No, this is a post about my musings on my future. Because I have no idea about what I want to do with my life.

My greatest dream, ever since I could ever remember, was to write. To simply let my imaginary stories dance across pages for everyone else to enjoy. I have always lived with my head above the clouds with made-up characters and fairytales; which also provides a nasty inkling that I shouldn't be studying something that requires me to be very consistently and firmly grounded.

However, my writing dreams have never come to fruition. I don't mean the lack of any actual success with my work, I mean that I have yet to even buckle down and start planning a decent plot, which is how it all begins.

I'm too frightened to thoroughly contemplate living with an unstable career, and the horror of having to resort to living the cliche life of working part-time while trying to make a mark in the publishing world. Also, don't we have more than enough fiction writers than one can shake a stick at? How far could one actually go?

Then of course, there was the typical childhood dream of becoming a performer. Thankfully, my singing and dancing dreams have been uprooted, simply because I realised I enjoy it more as a hobby and have too much stage fright to take things any further. Otherwise, there would be another option in the mix which would complicate things further.

But what if I decided not to pursue my literary dreams, but instead took the road more travelled by and became a solicitor? (Far be it for me to even consider becoming a barrister.) The road wouldn't be any more easy to travel, but there is a further reaching sense of security.

Would I hate myself though? Would I resort to blaming those I love for not chasing after this dream? Or am I just being incredibly naive thinking that people actually grow into the life they dreamed of achieving as a child?

It's not that I'm not interested in Law, because I am eager to learn about the workings of the judiciary, particularly that of the UK; but can one mistake mere inquisitivity for passion?

The reason for this whole debacle taking residence in my mind now is because I've now realised that I may be doing this (non-stop legal research) for the rest of my life. A close family lawyer friend has also remained unattached for almost all of her adult life; her contracts being her bible and life partners. Is that how I would want to end up?

Of course, I may be just somehow inventing all these doubts as excuses for being work-shy. I may also be excessively emotional due to PMS as my period is due soon (yes, during CNY no less), but I just wanted to document this nonsensical rant, hoping it will make sense to someone, because it certainly makes no sense to me.

Providence, please light my way.

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