Brain Vomit for the beginning of my Thirtieth Year

I have found these last few months that for myself and my own soul, solitude is not conducive to art.

What did I want to do with life before reality and lack of solid employment set in?
Write?
Sing?
Play in a band (the concert or marching or jazz type)?

I can never tell, with as foggy a memory as I now have, if I ever stopped to think of my musical exploits in any kind of categorical manner between "passion" and "profession".

Maybe I was just swept along, and didn't stop to think until I found myself abruptly tossed from the river.
And of course, by then it was too late to think of passion or profession because I was too much in shock at my own abrupt ejection.

"The longer you wait to finish, the less likely you are to ever do so."
-somebody somewhere

And while my own mental musicianship has greatly benefited my marriage and several very deep friendships, there is ever the gnawing sensation in moments of clarity that I have a large store of potential which continues to lie fallow.
Both because I seem unable to make a profession of it and because I find so little true outlet for it.
Especially due to my own introspective nature leading more readily to depression than to creativity.
And yet the clock still ticks, and each time I raise my head above the flood of time I find myself that much closer to the waterfall, that point at which there will be no more chance to plant my own eternal stone in the riverbed to say to all who pass that way after me that I WAS HERE!

I envy my wife to no end, not only for her lack of introspection but for her simple flow from passion to profession to indelible mark upon the next generation.