Sudden as that phone call in the middle of the night, perhaps bearing bad news of the people closest around you, perhaps just a wrong number dialed, a six instead of nine, or just a prank call from a alcohol-strung kid, I recalled my childhood dream.
I think there were actually a few.
Zebra. Deer. Policeman. Doctor. Lawyer…in that particular order.
You can see where social conditioning kicks in – somewhere in between deer and policeman.
Somehow or rather, I’ve always used a zebra toy to personify myself whenever I played with animal figurines. My most vivid childhood memories – play. Figurines of animals, toy cars, robots.
All involved another element – my imagination.
My greatest dream then was to be a writer, a novelist.
Why, my dad asked. He opened the door to let some wind in – it was getting hot and humid.
I couldn’t really answer and so I said, “Because I want to.”
Somehow, I remembered him saying, well, all authors are really old. They only become authors after they’re retired, he mumbled.
“That made sense,” I thought. I don’t see any young authors anywhere. Those blurbs of the books I picked up at the regional library only featured men with white hair at the back of the paperbacks. Even printing in colour couldn’t save them.