And When Dreams Die
I’m struggling with a rising spasm in my throat. My heart is being torn. I feel choked. “What have I done with the 24 years of my life?” I ask myself. Just in the name of a hopelessly unattainable dream, I have wasted myself. Tears well into my eyes as I fall into a reverie. I had decorated all my childhood with the flowery curtains of my only dream, the dream of being recognized as a writer. And everything looked comfortable from that vantage point. I shudder to think of the time when my dreams fell from the sky like the yellow leaves from the trees. Even so, I kept grasping for straws years later thinking it’s always darkest before the dawn. That life's an unpredictable mistress- you win some, you lose some. But there came no answer until the broken fragments of my dreams were mixed with dust. And nothing was left to hang my hopes upon. For fragments could be joined somehow but how could one sift his broken dreams from the dust? I didn't know how to make up the loss. The dreams I nourished since childhood had gone forever into nothingness.
As a child, I used to write articles in the local newspapers. Gradually I began to think of making it my career; I wanted my pen to write about all the pain in this world. “My pen would be the crutch for all the people who have been reduced to silence by those in power,” I used to say. It was all smooth sailing until I completed my college. And suddenly I couldn't keep pace with reality. There was darkness and confusion in my soul. I felt as though I was guided all through my life by a hand that had suddenly gone missing; I was all these years walking upon a crutch that had been snatched by an unknown hand. I was lost.
The person I first approached was an editor with some newspaper who had been at that time in the news for the re-launch of his magazine. I compiled data and stories for one complete year, but the magazine didn't ever hit the stands. My heart was rent to pieces. I cried like a child who had been torn away from her mother, like a blind who had been made to stand in the midst of a street alive with traffic.
A year later I gathered up my courage and sent my résumé to another editor who asked me to forward him my previous works. He later called me to his office only to say that they didn't have any vacancies. It seemed as though I were just going round in circles. No wonder I have been made a fool by my dreams. And my own people have added to the misery. But I didn't give up. While some weren't interested in my ideas of writing about women, others simply put before me the real face of media which actually reduces the definition to a mere shop where only the news that sells is given preference. I have lost count of the people I met in connection with my dream. I gave up finally just because I was unable to endure their abysmal reasons anymore.
And when I had lost all the hope of writing again, World Pulse updated about the 2013 VOF program on Facebook. Writing has been my first love. And when love beckons to you, do you for a second think of the sorrows it has brought to you? The same happened; I didn't for a second think about my decision of not writing again but registered for the course right away. Incidentally, did I tell you I've registered for an NGO just a few days back? Yes. It would focus on women and child rights, insha'Allah. My pen didn't get a chance to be your beacon which is fair enough because dreams don't always come true. But I'll definitely be your crutch through this initiative I've taken.
Thank you WP for helping me reconcile with my love, for imbuing in me the power to dream again.