I never thought myself as a writer. Reader, absolutely. But never a writer. I was good at school essays and wrote good articles on literary appreciation and practical criticism. I may have dallied in a few stories over the years but I never got to finish them. Only stopping in chapter 3. I didn’t think it was my thing. And I found myself picturing dreams of being a movie director. Because I usually saw the scenes play in my head like a movie. But then I couldn’t put them into words. And when I did, I’d get stuck in the process.
It was a never-ending cycle. A few lines like this would sneak into my head, “....and when all was said and done, she kissed her muse. It was her last but she didn’t know it. Yet.” I would be giddy with anticipation and pick up my pen and story journal(as I called it then), and begin to write. The words didn’t seem forced. They flowed like a peaceful stream. But then it would stop. Those lines in my head would fade into oblivion and soon enough I’d forget about it. A few days later, another line(s) would enter and it would be the same experience. And so on, till soon enough, I lost interest and apart from academic work, I never wrote a story again.
But then I got here and didn’t realize that something was going to change, till it did. I began to write stories, yet, something felt missing. It may seem strange and a little ambiguous what exactly I’m driving at. But you’ll realize in a moment, the thought process that shapes the dreems I will soon share. I spent a particular weekend at my cousin’s. He’d gotten his place and since I helped pick the colours for a particular room, he made me stay there which I was exceedingly glad for.
It was the weekend when I wrote something horrific for the first time in my life. I tried to make this room look exactly how it was and apart from the books, I think I’m nearly spot on. Surrounded by neutral and dark colours, in a window seat with a thrilling view from an overlooking window, I poured out my heart and little traces of my soul into that story.
I wouldn’t know if it was the fact that I had found the perfect ambience to make my soul bleed into the paper through my pen, but somehow, I suspect that to be the case. I left my cousin’s when the weekend was over. The story was a winner. And deep down I knew that I would be back to that perfect ambience. But this time, it would be my own place.
And then it happened again, but it was in the comfort of my home. In my backyard specifically, surrounded by my pretty garden and the wind billowing all across my face, I wrote another winning story. One that made my eyes blurry and soon enough, the ink smudged the paper cause it was wet with tears. It was another first for me. The first time I cried while writing my own story. It was a moment that I can only describe as divine. Transcendent. Surreal. All these in one and I knew I had found my happy place. My Dreem Space.
I’ve always wanted my Dreem Space. Maybe it’s because most of my favourite moments I had from childhood are the ones I spent in solitary. Alone. Me, my thoughts, a book, or my pen. I had a book that a teacher gave me in first grade for coming first in class. The name is “Daphne’s Book.” The supporting character in that book made a statement that I only remember now, after almost a decade. She said, “All good artists and writers have sad childhoods. They have unfortunate things happen to them. It’s what makes them creative.”
I believed a lot in that statement until I stopped. It does have an element of truth to it. But I think that what shapes every good writer or artist is their thoughts. The things they’ve thought about in the dark. Or when it was quiet. Or when they were alone.
My Dreem Space is a home. A home I will call mine. Not only because I live there, but because I’d pour my soul into every room. Craft it so splendidly to suit my fondest whims. And if anyone who knew me stepped in, they’d nod because they know the very essence of my thoughts is encrypted in the walls.
Fortunately, my Dreem Space isn’t overly lavish. My home is my my books. My room would be my den, dark enough to reflect my thoughts, bright enough to read the pages of my writings. It would have a window seat where I can sit and dreem. And while I dreem, I’ll be writing. And reading.
And then I’d have my garden, beautiful with trees and an abundance of breeze. My thoughts would waft with that breeze as I create the most sublime worlds in the crooks of my mind. Uninhibited. Unjudged. Would it cost much to create this world? No. It would take me a while to gather all the books I wanted. But it wouldn’t feel so much since what I usually gain is more than the money spent.
And thank God for a garden that I can make into reality with my hands. Is it possible to have all of these by 2024, yes. My mind says I wouldn’t be that liberated to own these. My heart says something different, however. That by this time next year, if I haven’t already gotten it, then at least, I’d almost be there. And that’s good enough for me.
Images created in NightCafe Studio.
My entry to The Dreemer of The Year Challenge.
