I used to have dreams for myself. I used to have my own hopes, wishes and desires and they were completely untarnished by the thoughts of others. They were individual, they were mine and they were real. I am going to write books. I am going to become an author. I am going to earn money and take care of maasi on my own. I am going to be happy, like I am now. These looked like dreams then; they look like the words and thoughts of a delusional child who has not tasted all of life yet.
At some point in time, the focus shifted from me to my parents, my sister, my friends, my relatives… and just people around me. Something just made me decide that I was not important. My outlook changed. I scrapped my dreams for others’. I am going to be an engineer. I am going to be a merit holder. I am going to be a good listener to my friends. I am going to set the perfect example for what a daughter ought to be like. These became forced dreams because I didn’t have a choice. People think I had a choice. Lies. My loved ones mattered enough to me for me to alter myself for them. Their expectations of me slowly had my own dreams crushed and broken on the ground.
Now I have no dreams of my own. The only one singular passion I have left of my own is writing. Stories, poetry, this blog… Every other thing I do is guided by someone else’s wishes, someone else’s dreams. I have forgotten what it is like to be able to want something for myself without letting thoughts about others come in the way.
Now my dreams are fragments on the ground that make me bleed with every step I take. They pierce me because they can never be whole again.