This was a blog entry that I had made nearly two years ago.
The second weeks assignment made me think of it. I think it is pertinent so I am posting it here.
Childhood Dreams...Innocent, naive, hopeful.
But most importantly, Important.
Important because they are the untainted truth of our core essence.
Our soul, before it is caged by material desire and social norms.
I was a dreamer. Still am.
Although I have seen several of my dreams silent deaths. But I refuse to stop. It would be to stop believing and then how does one live without belief?
I wrote my first poem in fifth grade. It was a continuation of a verse from Iqbal's poetry. I didn't understand the poet's intended meaning but I somehow managed to give it a new one. I remember being very proud of it. My Urdu teacher had told me then to never stop writing.
But I did.
And today I wonder why?
Was it the first time I was told that what good will a bachelors in psychology or literature do and that a BBA is a much more financially lucrative credential not to mention infinitely more prestigious?
Was it when my choice in a spouse became a dining table conversation about my character, sanity etc, etc and therefore I shrunk in my shell to shut up voluntarily?
Was it when I was too stuck in the rut of everyday life to stop and listen to my inner voice?
Something that we don't think about much but instinctively suppress.
For fear of judgment, betrayal, consequence, isolation. Without realizing that it is the silence that we should fear.
MY childhood dream was to have a voice and to not let it be silenced by anything or anyone. It would be a voice that would change the world around me. People would listen and think.
And maybe I would have never remembered had it not been for a conversation with a friend two days ago.
It was a conversation about political correctness, about how voicing one's view maybe an imposition on other people's beliefs, about appropriate social behavior.
It was a conversation of fear, judgment and isolation. And hence, not a conversation at all.
It was a statement; of separation, stagnation, resistance to change.
And for once I was compelled to listen; listen, because I felt my right of speech was being robbed.
Gently, politely, with a carrot instead of a stick. But I was silenced alright.
And in that moment I had the strongest urge to reclaim my voice and renounce self censure ship, the worst kind of imposition.
So this is to my voice that will not be silenced and will be heard for I will ensure that it is.
It is an active choice that I make today.
For dreams may choose us but we choose our realities.
This is to conversations and not silences.
This is to hope and not fear.