Light manifested, and upon approaching nigher, assumed the form of a human. Stranded on an
isolated desert on one such night, dark, placid and solemn, I strived to sit up on the sandy terrain.
Cloaked in dazzling silver rays, the too real to be surreal being professed thus, ‘The road of
literature shall lead you there.’
Upon waking up, it gets easy and convenient to forget the dreams and follow the crowd. The
dream I had as a seventeen-year-old who had just finished school could hardly decipher its
magnitude, had its own machination. Two days into an engineering college, and the dream
manifested as inner turmoil and torments, extracting me out of the college, and thereupon
anchoring me in a different college to master literature.
While on the final semester of postgraduate studies, the dream for the second time manifested,
and as sleepless nights this time, offering me the solitude to pitch in the first draft of my first
writing venture. I was granted glimpses of the mystical and marvellous universe of creation as
how along the bridge of a storyline, the characters choose you, let you breathe and channel their
stories, bearing with your writing tantrums all the while.
Done with its completion, the dream retreated at once sans bothering to equip me with the
marketing gimmicks. Failing the point, I was left to wander astray tempted in fits and starts by
the ways of the crowd. Enough with the dream, I ruminated many a times. The silence the dream
had in response irked and infuriated me even more. Even the dream had deserted me in the
strands of a void, I grieved thus.
Once in a blue moon, a reminder would reach me via the universe has its means. In the darkest
nights, the dream that endorses the purpose would glow on its own, revealing some secrets and
a lot many lights. Upon waking up, I realise that my existence finds its breath in writing, and that
the dream is here to live in its own light.