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Saturday, February 14, 2004
To Dream by Day
"All people dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind, wake in the morning to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people, for they dream their dreams with open eyes, and make them come true."
With these words of T.E. Lawrence, also known to us as Lawrence of Arabia, I begin. In the day when all is clear and the sun bright, I dared to dream those fluffy things of the night, mere wisps of passing fantasy that would never have taken root in my life. Out under that unblemished cerulean blue sky, I saw with my own two eyes the stuff of my dreams playing out on those clouds; I saw, and began to believe.
Belief is a great power that you hold in the palm of your own hand, and only truly loses its value if you let someone snatch it away from you. Dreams without faith are but mere pictures in our minds, but when we start to see in front of ourselves a thread of gold that holds in it all the deep, unfathomable secrets of the mind and heart, grab that delicate strand firmly with both hands, and as far as possible, do not let it go.
For now, dear reader, I have decided to tell you the story of my life, the tale of a seemingly ordinary sixteen year old. Granted, I may not have fully gone through the myriad of feelings and experiences that most of you readers would have, and I most certainly do not claim to have done so.
No, my life has not been harsh and arduous in the manner of countless starving and diseased children in impoverished countries the world over, nor has it been days of endless opulence, luxury and comforts.
Instead, my existence here on this world has been one like those hundreds and thousands of students my age, virtually invisible, a mere nameless face among the crowds. In every sense, this story is one of a typical teenaged girl, an ordinariness synonymous with all things dull, dreary and drab.
Today, as I sit by the window where dancing sun beams poke their way through the glass panes and the sweet smell of white jasmines from my garden float in the air up to my room, I tell you my story: To Dream by Day - the Life of Marie Christina Lin, the obscure girl who simply dared to dream.
**
No one would have guessed the identity of the author of this piece of work. The story is cliched beyond cliched, the entire tale simplistic. This is but the beginning of the story, the rest of the tale was far too idealistic to put up here. I read this with scorn, being the complete cynic I am.
Then I recognise the hopefulness and innocence of the writer. I see that same idealism that I possessed a mere year ago. And I realised who the author was: It was me that was writing, just barely a year ago.
And then it hits me, how much things have changed. I couldn't possibly write something like that now - I'm too filled with angst and bitterness to write something as intristically good as this. I'm miserable, by virtue of the one simple fact that I can't recognise the Kelly of a year ago anymore. As I told myself before, self-pity is despicable, and I wish I could just shut the hell up about myself. But I remember Khin telling me before that we, as humans, have this inane tendancy to be exceptionally interested in matters that directly affect us and the structure of our lives. Can I blame this on human nature? Or is it pure weakness on my part?
Oh dear. I'm confusing myself.
heard
those magic reindeer click @
7:54 PM
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