[Story] A Day and a Dream
They speak of reality and they speak of dreams. Then they speak of a journey from dream to reality. They also then tell us, the experience of that journey is what counts – I beg to disagree. Of course I will have to, else they might not consider the composition that follows, I thought to myself as I start typing in the blank document in front of me. I don’t like blank documents they urge me to write, it’s to quench the thirst of expressing something; anything that inspires my thought while I sit in my chair sulking about the times I live in. The blinking cursor stirs my conscience searching for a new subject I haven’t thought of so far.
I wonder why people always sulk about the times they live in. I guess it is so because we are human, never content with what we have, although we learn to compromise with what we have, we are still disappointed in much to get over the question of what is wrong with everything around us?
To be honest, nothing is. Everything is always just the way it is supposed to be. Acceptance is a difficult thing to learn. On the other hand, I have managed a sentence by now, Vasu has a difficult time accepting the reality, he hates his job but he likes his guitar more. I look around. The noisiness of the café was absent for the moment I was writing that line and that is often a good thing for me. It meant that I was on the right path. The line had inspired a story in me about a boy who lives an ordinary life, a boy with ambitions and dreams. I sip my Irish coffee and continue to think to drown out the chaotic crowd again.
Are you good at acceptance? I think so. I wonder where that comes from. I have never had problems accepting things. I accept the crowd or else I will be throwing around the chairs and screaming at people like a madman won’t I?
Alright I can accept things, I reassured myself. But then I thought about Vasu, he accepts everything then doesn’t he? Else he will be screaming like a madman everyday too, cussing people and making enemy with everything and everyone around him. I gave it another thought as I deleted the first sentence. I feel annoyed. The inspiration had been but a momentary spark but it wasn’t enough to light a fire inside me.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I stare at the screen restless inside. The cursor challenges me, its existence taunts me. I flinch at the sight of it. Why did I decide to open up a blank document again? I think loudly cursing myself.
Vasu understands what he is but the acceptance of his world has made him realistic…
Reality, I think, is that such a bad thing? I make it appear such by writing that line.
Vasu understands what he is capable of. The times he lives in, however, makes him accept reality. But it would mold him into something stronger.
Will it? My sub conscience pokes me. I know however it does, ambitious people talk of reality and dreams assas separate phases, successful people know that they are one and the same.
As he waits in the heavy traffic and scorching sun, Vasu thinks of his dreams and his vows to himself during his college life. The dream to be a musician someday. The memories of the life of ambition he had wanted to lead made him sigh.
He wondered why he never fought hard enough for his dreams.
Because he was uninitiated, he did not understand the value of his dreams, he had never felt loss, he had never felt despair? A voice inside my head answers Vasu’s question.I continue typing in about how Vasu’s day begins at the office and the people in his life that made him feel so unimportant and general, how he hated this feeling but shook it off while having a cup strong of black coffee.
Poor Vasu, my conscience empathizes with the sole protagonist of my short composition. I hope he realizes that all this is just the preparation for more hardships he has to face before he sets off on a difficult path to fulfill his dreams as a musician. I am the writer, I know he has a happy ending but I hate to make him suffer so. I have suffered so too.
I relentlessly type in the past five years he has spent working a well-paying job, as he slowly strangles his dreams and beliefs.
Being an artist or just wanting and struggling to be a genuine one can be harsh, I thought.
I carry on, describing how his day ends up with him getting fired, as he refuses to compromise further with his realistic condition and be more realistic about what he really has to be. He ends up in his room strumming the guitar softly, as he lets the music inspire the spark that sets afire the reality he knew and creates a new dimension of reality, where he would almost starve but succeed in the end.
The journey of past five years? I think.Yes, I have had a journey double that time, I answer a question I didn’t ask myself in the first place.
What is the point of writing this? I thought, it isn’t that great a piece and there are way too many words.
Yes! Of course! I thought, I was describing my journey. Expressing it so that anyone who reads it would know.
The best are forged from the fire. Another voice stated this unusually general philosophy.
The fire of reality forges us but only we know the heat and the hammers we have taken, that molded us into who we really have to be. The journey doesn’t matter to anyone but me; I can’t express it clearly enough for anyone to learn from, all they can do is understand. The journey doesn’t matters. I thought to myself as I took another good look at the now four page long write-up.
Before I knew it the words were gone. I had hit the back space and held it for a long while, enough so that the cursor consumed the article. It blinked on the screen now celebrating my defeat at the start of the blank document.
I took to the keyboard again and after a minute saved the sentence I had now typed. I closed my laptop as I sat back and gestured the attendant for my usual cream topped Irish coffee. I looked out at the ritualistic commotion on the streets through the transparent walls of the Café, as I enjoyed my coffee. I thought of what I had written and smiled to myself.
To my dear cursor,
You realize a day and you live a dream.