by Augustine Tan
I once believed in dreams. I had dreams of being great, admired and respected. My arrogance had put me in my own little world, where I alone was important. Everyone else mattered little. But of course, that was my childish self. I had since matured and gotten rid of that mind set, but it would be a while later before I completely rejected the idea of having dreams.
In school, my classmates and I were asked about our ambitions. Some of us had unrealistic but plausible ambitions, while others had not decided yet. Still, our elders encouraged us to have a rough idea on what we wanted to do later in life, so that we could make the right choices when the time came. I yearned to be an author, having been an avid Harry Potter fan, but my dad decided that I was better off getting a job in engineering and doing writing at the side.
I still held on to my dream, but with some reservations. I realized how weak my writing skills were compared to experienced authors. My writing skills had improved over the course of time, but I felt that I did not have what it took to write a full-length novel.
Then reality hit me. I had woken up. I had to come to terms with the fact that if I wrote fiction, it had to resonate with myself. The problem was, I tried to convey a message that I could not quite understand: waking up. The last time I wrote a piece of fiction, it had nothing to do with that topic. To this day, I still struggle to write about it. I am now just beginning to get the gist of it.
Dreams are just that: unattainable fantasies. Even if you make them reality, there will be an undesirable element that reminds you of the real world.