to the dream i once have

to the dream i once have

many many years ago, i dreamed that i would one day be a writer. published a book of my own with my name on it. or maybe under some fake name with a pseudonym of my creation.

 

i can foresee myself sitting at the corner of my favourite starbucks, sippping a cup of black and with my hand moving swiftly filling the gap in between those tiny button on the keyboard; creating a kingdom of fantasy, or quaint love story of two strangers, or a love torn sad melodramatic story while listening to my favourite songs. as if my imagination, the source of my creation would be drawn from all of this when those criteria was fulfilled.

 

and years go by, no trees were sacrificed to fulfil my dream. i was caught up with one thing that most people have. life. it was like a tangle of string. binding me, bounded me in ways that i could not imagined. i was drifted away in waves and waves of endless ‘life situation’. further away from the quaint spot that i have imagined. from the cup of black, from the favourite song, from the to-be story of my creation.

 

every now and then, when i come across some life affirming post. i would always told myself. i would like to write like this. full with intellectual, honesty and inspiration. then it dawn on me.

 

life is what makes us who we are. life is the source of creation of my to-be story. to experience and to feel and to hear words that is not spoken. to understand what was truly being said rather than to just listen. to look beyond those glossy eyes. to just understand how people feel and how you make them feel.

 

that is the source of creation.