I have learnt that the nature of dreams, dreamt today is to be disappointing when it becomes a reality tomorrow.
I dreamed of becoming a pen, a pen flowing with indelible juice of blue or indigo. A pen marking sheets of flat whitened pulp with calligraphed scribbles. A pen the vehicle to convey deep, wild, free, unabashed and unabated lore and fact through the streets of paper and furthermore into the jungle of mind. A pen, maybe ball point or quill. A pen that soothes itching, spontaneous and radical fingers. A pen beautiful, catching the eyes of many admirers but the disappointment of being the pen is that someday, one day, that indelible ink will cease its flow.
I dreamed i could be a writer, the eccentric and intelligent creator of fantastic knowledge. A maverick, willfully churning emotions and upsetting notions. A writer, a magician of sorts conjuring fictions and facts using the pen as my wand, using so many different pens to write the destiny of life itself but alas the disappointment of being a writer is that my mortality will reign, I will surely die.
Now i know what i could be, i could be a book written upon by so many writers using so many different pens.
I could be a book, words written in sand will be washed away, words engraved in stone will be buried, words written on skin will become parched. Words written on one book may be destroyed!
Aha! I surely know what i could be, i could be a book printed in many copies, a book translated into many tongues, even if i get destroyed one copy of me or the other will be found in some far off library in Tibet, Rome, Calgary, Antigua or even Calabar. A book i dream to be, i will be.