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At twenty-six, most of my friends are in relationships or married. After a few failed serious relationships, a huge heartbreak, and realizing the importance of pursuing my own education to further enhance my own self worth, I realized my own creative importance. I came to the conclusion that a serious relationship, at least right now, is not for me.

Take, for instance, a realization I had with a previous boyfriend. We will call him Dave. I lived with Dave for one year during my early twenties, while still an undergrad. We broke up right before I went to graduate school, as is something that happens to a lot of people who leave for graduate studies. But, even before I broke up with him, I knew the inevitable was coming. The following story served as a catalyst to the realized that no, I would not be in this relationship forever.

Dave would have to housesit when his parents went away for a weekend because of the plants and animals and so we both used to go and stay there for a few days, or however long it was. One time we went there just for a weekend. We would sleep in his parents' room.

One morning, I woke up early, or perhaps it wasn't that early because Dave is a late sleeper, he sleeps until noon when he can. I decided to get up and make coffee and food, but before I could make it out of the room I noticed all the photos on the wall. I had noticed them before, but never bothered looking at any of them too much.

The photos were of his parents' wedding, him and his sister, older relatives. The typical of family photos. Aged and in black and white and yellowed and in that weird not quite right coloring you see in photos from the seventies sometimes. As I looked at them I felt empty and weird. Could this be my life, I thought, something kept in photos on a wall? All the faces were smiling, yes. People looked happy. But for Jessica, it felt vaguely frightening. Vaguely because I couldn't quite understand how I was feeling as I looked at those sometimes familiar faces. Frightening because I know there is so much more inside myself than just being someone's wife, someone's mother. Someone more than the person that keeps the family history and stories. I knew if I stayed, that is what would happen. Sure, I would probably have my own job and maybe some other activity, but what about my life of thought and words and books?

I sound like a nerd, I know, but I am one and I certainly am not alone. To give an historical example, John Milton would read

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