Do I really want to be a doctor?

Apparently (according to some boring online medicine thing I subscribe to) a large number of medical students seriously question whether they are doing the right thing or not. I know I definitely am questioning this, and definitely have in the past.
I decided to apply for medicine about a week before I handed in my UCAS form. It was an utterly bizarre decision - I think I was driven by that "if I can I might as well" attititude, which is ridiculous, because my three main passions are zoology, astronomy and creative writing. Now I do anything to pursue these.
But am I longing for these subjects because I am so irreversibly immersed in my current subject, or because they are my real callings? I'd be interested to hear what students of other subjects think - do you crave stimulation from new areas? I sure do.
I went on the Open University website to see how much it would be to study Astronomy with them. A lot, it turns out. You need a lot of money to do a degree. Ugh. And I'm doing one right now. Ugh x 2.
But right now? I just got a pang of homelessness for my native subjects because I'm writing this portfolio essay that I REALLY don't want to do. It's probably just a remnant of my disgusting teenage angst poking through. I don't like medicine right now. Whoever thought medicine would be all mediciney? It's getting in the way of me enjoying medicine. Medicine, medicine, medicine, medicine, medicine. That word is strange.

The Laerdav Verses

So we arrive - the cold air greets us.
It washes over our hears and cools the space
behind us. Ruffles our hair.
For we are there.

The crystalline palace, built up by the people,
to worship their gods and honour
their masters: the crowned ones.
Worship the suns.

We share a fire to warm up the night
We cannot sleep under strange stars.
Sunlight in jars.
Weary, so far
on this faceted shard.

Ambassadors greet us, their faces welcoming,
but hiding their reasons. Sheltering us
they keep us for strange causes.
They ride horses.

And galloping home they tell their families
about us, the travellers. The vagrants
of Earth. The cosmic homeless.
Cold air caress.

We share a fire to warm up the night
We cannot sleep under strange stars.
Sunlight in jars.
Weary, so far
on this faceted shard.

We have alien faces
and skeleton bodies.
Unfamiliar to those
who greet us on this
new planet.
And I remember my wife
and the day I arrived.

-------

I've not thought about space for a while. The idea that civilizations exist elsewhere in the universe is so beautifully compelling to me that I have to acknowledge it. Who are they? What are they? Will we ever visit them? Time will let us know.

Opportunity Knocked

Squeezed by forces hidden,
tapped by fingers frozen,
degraded on the floor
sits my wooden reeded organ.
Glancing on the keys
and peering at the black ones
I collect my thoughts and
write upon the staves.

I remember back tonight
when the coloured minds took flight
and a mesmerising murmur
wrought its songs upon the world.
The fanciful forgotten
and the trodden down and rotten
were remembered by
the voice that sang to me.

Contemporary visions
and photographs of paintings
and intertwining harmonies
were weaved into a basket.
Placed inside were records, dreams
and pent up thoughts and memories
and my blank turquoise t-shirt
and my little wooden organ.