le rêve (The dream)

I have always been interested in writing. Journalism as a career option couldn’t have been better suited than to me. Earlier pen and paper were my best companion and later, the ever faithful PC (give or take a few “crash” incidents.)

I want to become a writer, rather I just want to write. I have had my fair share of published works too, from school magazines to newsletters to newspapers to blogs, etc.

In my work, I dream and I dream away. I live my wish to create life with words... to give life to the words and to give such meaning to them that they sparkle and dance as if alive. Words too have a soul. Don’t they? And therefore, books are my best friends. Nothing can better entertain a lonely man than books. They engross you such that you want to go on and on reading.

Thus, I wish and I dream that one day I would become either a journalist or a writer (famous or otherwise, only time will tell.)

The other responsibilities of life saw me enter the path of marriage and then of the remarkable state of motherhood. Everything was so new. My life had taken a new turn and no matter how my near ones guided and held my hand, this was all new and unfathomably challenging. To start one’s own family and to procreate is probably the heaven that we search for outside of this world. These new roles got me so involved that writing took a backseat.

Ideas kept flooding in and out, but I never got a chance to put them on paper. Now, I realise that it was I who did not give me that chance. Not that I am unhappy about it, all that I wanted then was to live the new life fully. That was priority. I was too busy soaking up the razzle and dazzle of new people and the new relations and relationships. And I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more.

Now, my fingers start to itch again, my mind longs to let the words flow. But it didn’t seem to happen so easily. I felt as if there was the oh-so-common writer's block (read mental block). I just couldn’t get myself to begin. There were so many things I could write about. I didn’t know where to start. I just kept dreaming.

The dream broke when I suddenly woke up one day. My little bubble burst. I realised I was only playing in my mind. What use is it to dream if one can’t see them through. How does it matter if what I wrote isn’t “Booker” material? How could it, if the paper were still blank?

All that, until now. The dream no longer exists... Now, I am living it; atleast I am striving to. What fun is to dream lest you don’t even try to make it real?

I am back after a rather long hiatus. So here goes, my friends, promise me to read all you can while I write all I can.