I first read the story of "The Little Prince" when I was 14. Now, 9 years later, I still remember my favourite part of the book: The child narrator drew a boa constrictor swallowing an elephant and when he showed his artwork to adults they would interpret it as a hat. They never saw his giant snake neither did he understood the reason for their interpretations. With the little literature knowledge I have, I decided on my own accord that it's theme is realising your dreams and achieving them. Personally, I thought that the book is deep and carries much symbolism. Often I wonder why is it Children's literature when it would speak volume to adults.
Anyhow, the boa constrictor drawing led me to believe that I should never lose the inner child in me. My fourteen-year-old self made a promise to my future self that I will always do things that I believe in; I will not stop believing in my dreams no matter what other people think of them - specifically what the clever adults in my life thought.
I gave up my dream of being a writer after internship and doing my project work last year. These string of experiences were evidence that writing is not my forte. Unless I am to write about my life and emotions. I've learnt to embrace my strength: building rapports and dealing face-to-face with people. That was when I decided to leave this blog to die. What is the point anyway, right? I am too busy as well.
Until recently. When a friend encouraged me to continue writing. "You could still write. For yourself. For emotional therapy." Simultaneously, the words of a beloved lecturer echoed in a distance, "Maybe you can have a column for yourself someday".
Writing this piece, I realised, is more than just reviving a blog. It is an act of daring to dream again. It is fulfilling the vow I made when I was 14. I have forgotten how long since I have defended my own boa constrictor drawing. It seems like I have succumb to the opinion of things and those around me. My drawing has become a mere hat.
I am not saying that my life has turned into a mundane, restricted journey. Please do me a favour and be rid of the impression that I am being controlled or have lost controlled over my own life. It just dawned upon me that I have not dared to dream for myself for a long time.
By 'dream', I do not mean mere imagination; it is something I believe in and something I do for myself. Lately, my decisions and actions have always been for the good of all (at least, I think so). There were so many 'yes' I gave when the heart was screaming 'no' and vice versa. This is what mature adults do, don't they? They put themselves aside. Even at the expense of their own dream? Perhaps.
Frankly, it is getting a little tiring. Since when did fighting for your own dream became a selfish crime?
I desire so ardently to do things for myself again. To decide for myself once more. Like writing. So what if I am not going to be on the list of best-selling authors? So what if I will never live of my writing? I am not doing it for fame or wealth or for anyone else. I write for me.
I am aware that there are roads which I have to take out of love and responsibility. I will not shun reality. However, it does not mean that I cannot tread these paths without allowing the inner child in me to live. The inner child who will defend her dream and do the things she believe in regardless of what other people say or think.
I shall strive to live my dreams: To be ordinarily great. To own a personal library. To travel and experience the world. To invest in things that I value even if there will be no returns.To never settle for mediocre. To never extinguish that passion for the things I believe in.
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