Forgotten Dreams

Today was the day I finally opened the letter I had written to myself ten years ago. After years of not living here, I had started cleaning my room, hoping for some sort of orderliness, a sense of achievement that I could not find within myself. University was finally over, but the war in my mind was not.

It was when I picked up the mattress that I saw the letter. Cramped up in the little space it had and yellowish from all the years it had lived through lay a small brittle piece of paper holding the writings of a 12-year-old girl with dreams as big as the universe and a hope that everything would work out.

I unfolded the letter slowly, the paper crackling in protest. I was met with messy and chaotic handwriting, a scribble of thoughts everywhere. 

Dear future me,

I hope you are doing well. Did we ever become a writer? I hope we did.

A writer? Ha, I had forgotten about that. It’s been years since I had written anything. In university, I found myself doing a major that was completely unrelated to my desires with hopes of getting a salary that I could someday live by, after all, writers in my country could barely put food on the table.

I have so many stories I want to tell. I make up different scenarios in my head and build different worlds in my head that maybe one day I could write. I hope you wrote some of the stories.

Memories flood in. I remember returning from school every day, excited to keep writing my stories. I would come up with new plotlines and story ideas, feeling electric. Now I sit on my bed, wondering where all that ambition went. What happened to all the things I wanted to do?

Whenever I am writing, I feel like I am traveling to another place. Did we ever travel for real? I imagine us going to ancient castles, beautiful beaches, and cool cities. I see us living in a completely different place with different cultures and meeting so many new people and maybe one day I will find people just like me, those who live in their fantasies.

I had always wanted to see the world, or at least go somewhere out of this town but there was always something holding me back, an excuse- too busy, too broke, not ready for it and so many more, and when it was time to choose what university to go to, I choose the one in my town. I told myself that my parents were getting old and that I wanted to be close to them, but the truth is I only visited them 3 times during my entire time at the university. 

If I met that little girl today, my inner child, I wouldn't know what to tell her. How could I break it to her that we did not, in fact, travel? That I was terrified of leaving this place, that I was too scared to achieve my dreams, to live.

My biggest dream is to be an author that people love. I want to make people feel something. I want them to feel joy in my writings and get a sense of comfort that there is someone out there who understands them. I want to make the world a little better than it is now and even if I can’t do that, just making their day better and letting them know that they are not alone is enough for me and I hope that I can achieve that one day.

Making an impact? Me? I laugh bitterly. That wouldn’t ever happen. But could it though? Is there an alternate universe where I make an impact on people? Could I be an inspiration to people? But then again, if I don’t even try, how would I even know?

But whatever happens, don’t ever give up, okay? Remember why you started writing in the first place. Do it for me, do it for us.

Love you, 

Liya.

I fold the letter and press it to my chest. My fingers linger on the paper, almost as if it would take me back to the person I used to be, to the one who sat in her bed dreaming, the one who believed in the magic within herself. 

Sitting there, I feel a shift in my heart, one I haven’t felt in years. Maybe I don’t need to let her go, maybe she is still here buried under all the layers of self-doubt and practicality, of the need to survive.

Suddenly I feel compelled to do something I haven’t done in years. I pick up an old notebook and a pen. The pages stare blankly at me, waiting for me to say something, and I start. I sit down, pen in hand, and begin to write. The words feel strange at first, rusty even, but as I keep going, the flow becomes more natural, one idea melting into another, just as they used to when I was little.

Time slips away, as my thoughts spill into the pages. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. For the first time in years, I let myself indulge in my desires, I let myself dream, and believe that I could one day be something.

Tomorrow, I might go back to my old routine, a plethora of mundane tasks, but today I promise to myself to keep writing, even if it is one line at a time, in honor of that little girl, the one who wrote me this letter. I might even get to publish my stories someday, who knows?

As I set down my pen, I glance at the letter and take a deep breath. I don’t have all the answers and maybe I never will but I have taken one step, however small it is, to be the person I have always wanted to be. I smile, feeling a little lighter as if the little girl who wrote me that letter had finally come home.