Where does the line cross between practicality and sentimentality? We've all been told at some point in life, by someone we hold high regard for, to chase our dreams. To chase our dreams regardless of what the rest say.
You can do that when there are no responsibilities on your shoulders, no obligations to answer to. You don't give a damn about the judgmental opinions of others who seemingly have more "practical dreams" than you. A dream is a dream, regardless. But some dreams are more socially acceptable, employable, more practical than some others. Some dreams are safe, some dreams are a walk on the tightrope, but aren't all dreams – dreams?
A walk down the archives of my blog and it strikes me how much I have changed over the past 5 years. My writing style has changed and developed over the years, from a colloquial daily journal to a more serious, sentimental avenue where I air my distractions from life, asking the Internet questions I'll never have answers to, publishing blog posts into virtual space where I have not a clue on who reads it, until one fine day when someone mentions my blog to me, and I dawn upon realisation that my incoherent thoughts do translate into somewhat readable content. Initially, I set it a target to blog every single day, because it after all was an intended journal. I managed to keep it up somewhat for maybe half a year, before I dawned upon the fact that forced writing will only result in writer's block, and any writing that subsequently comes out of it will be utterly valueless. The biggest takeaway from my writing journey, as far as my blog is concerned, is that noteworthy writing cannot be forced. There cannot be any pressure put into good writing, because good content only comes from the very depths of the heart, where the core of my soul is awoken to guide my brain, my fingers, into an almost automatic motion, and I write, and I write, a garbled thought and a flurry of words, and I don't stop until I've exhausted all my internal fuel. This is the stamina that cannot be forced, but only propelled by daily vicissitudes.
In primary and secondary education, all the way up to Junior College, I've been a student taking on the science streams. I memorised hard, solid facts, backed up by hundreds of thousands of experimentations and evaluations, to produce an answer so exact that no further questioning was required. Yet, I never felt a connection with math and science. Instead, I liked the idea of ambiguity, producing an argument, and arguing against the arguments of others. I liked the feeling of being overwhelmed after reading a particularly powerful passage, it gave me the inspiration and motivation to write just like them; to make my readers feel something on the intrinsic level, to touch, to move, to stop for a second to absorb all that they are feeling by my work.
I've tried doing professional writing jobs, but none of them made me happy as the requirements didn't give me the flexibility to articulate what I truly wanted to express. All they needed was good grammar, decent vocabulary and a relevant physical topic to work on. Anyone can do that. It wasn't special enough. Then again, feeling something doesn't pay you, it doesn't give you recognition, until something kicks you so hard inside that you take on the physical world.
As I start University, my course will give me plenty of space to think, to feel, to express what is exclusively mine. To write, to argue, to challenge; to give a piece of my mind to mark my existence of my thinking (I think, therefore I am), to be constantly alive with my thoughts, to be repeatedly reminded that how powerful it is to be able to feel.
Of course, everything is a risk. Some dreams weigh more than others, and mine is a particularly heavy one. Regardless, all will fail if I don't even at least try.
I will see what I can make out of it all.
; 