I entertain the thought of future and sit for what seems days in meditation

Over what I could achieve, mind occupied with occupations,

And tend not to dwell on the confinement of dreams strictly to my dreams,

Or the inhibition of sensations that are bursting at the seams.

I'd be a writer, I would muse, and leave a legacy in word,

That would ask, argue, and amuse; a perspective seldom heard.

I could always be a painter and, as my brush marks course the gallery,

Know that I'd depict my soul, a value worth far more than my salary.

Or maybe I'd be a neurologist, and quantify innate human nature,

And consume more knowledge that I'd digest, and answer questions about which no one's sure.

I could save a life as a cardiac surgeon,

Or be a columnist whose following would burgeon.

Because despite popular belief,

Art relative to science isn't at all remote,

Just as humans aren't all the same and not all learning is just simply rote.

Diverse amongst each other, diverse within ourselves,

We are rich with varied intellectual components in which the mind delves.

Before myself I find the myriad opportunities branching from this tree,

But before for I seek to change the world in the job of my dreams, 

I must understand that the root of all this change is me.