I think writing is about spontaneity. It’s about putting together the fleeting ideas, organizing them in a discernible flow and immortalizing them on piece of paper, or these days, an electronic medium. Don’t get me wrong; scrolls can be burnt and data can be erased, in a matter of seconds. I think the act of putting intangible ideas in sentences puts down the steel tracks for the train of thought. It may be forgotten, put aside, but as long as one wills it, the runaway train is still within grasp.
These few days, I’ve had a fair share of thoughts that I had hoped to put it down somewhere, but fatigue (perhaps a euphemism for sloth) always win the game of procrastination and those ideas shatter like forgotten dreams.
Forgotten dreams. That leads me onto a passing thought. Do dreams only belong to the realm of children – the dreamers, or are adults – the pragmatists, entitled to them too? There are people well into their silver ages who remain dreamers, but who knows what goes through their minds? Do they not judge themselves, under the (all-so-glorious) hood and off the press, of being impractical?
I have come to realize we are our own greatest judge. No one except ourselves know what exact thoughts are placed on the (often unreliable) cost-benefit scale that is unique to one’s realm of cognition. Today is not the time for rationality. Dreams.
For people who have so much, it is difficult to dream. Even if they are willing to give up what they have for their dreams, they judge themselves for it, no matter what they say on the outside. For people who have so little, perhaps dreams are what’s left for them. An alternative interpretation of “blessed are the poor?”
And I’ve finally gotten the letter. Paris, 2013. More details to come!