Memoirs of a Confused Man Work in Progress

The Future is not what it used to be
Cries for a Lost Dream
I am not a writer, neither am I a singer nor the poet that I had made myself into, years back.

Those were the years of loneliness yet so much happiness filled my heart. The years of confusion and yet so much hope ruled in my life.

Those were the days of big dreams, when I once thought I would be the best Doctor ever produced, then again no, I would rather be the best Chemical Engineer, and then no, I would be the best Manager ever made. Whatever I became, I would also be the most prolific writer, a contributor to knowledge and a renowned, rich yet humble member of the learned society.

Above all, I entertained dreams of this great man of God, who did all things according to his word.

This was my dream-bits and pieces of a dream. It was my vision of life. The life that I would lead with one wife and a couple of wonderful children. As I was destined for only the best, she would be the best.

So vivid was my vision I don’t forget those days I used to stand aside of all the nice talk and play of the boys my age, to delve into my dream-to get lost in my own world and live life to the full. I would picture practical events taking place, events that always featured me as the great man that would arise to solve huge problems, mature problems.

This was my dream, which remained a dream and came to nought.

Sometimes I wonder who makes dreams. Who takes us to this wonderful world of happiness, success, and joy and shows us all the grand things life can give. Who is it that gives so much to the mind, feeds it with such success stories, which all come to nothing?

It was my dream to be happy and happy I have kept myself, not by the achievements that I had so much hoped for, but by accepting that I cannot reach out to my dream. By accepting the future may never be what it used to be. It is not and might never be. Yet I believe that the only thing that takes us through life, through the difficulties of this existence, is the hope of better things to come, until our death. It is a sad reality, a truth that hurts so much. A paradox that cripples me even as I write, in the hope that one day I will articulately tell the world something about my shattered dream. That one day they may know that I lived and I failed, that I once lived and had dreams.

May be someone might teach me something, probably someone will learn from my experiences. Yet all this might be just hope-hope to keep a middle-aged man’s faded dreams alive. That will bring him to life-with the zeal of a teenager.

I am a novice writer. Only that I write from my heart. All I can say is the truth. So this is truth, not a book. It is truth that reminds me how life can be so wonderful and bitter at the same time.

It is truth, and truth I shall write.