Box of dreams

My childhood bedroom in my parents’ house has pretty much remained intact since my teenaged years. In the cluttered bookcase, on the third shelf, underneath my line of stuffed animals, lies a box. It’s the box that used to contain puzzle-pieces of a Montreal streetscape. Not knowing what I would discover within, I opened it a few days ago. As it turned out, it was my box of dreams. In it were stories I had written ten to twelve years ago. Many had several drafts, with my scrawls all over the margins. As I pored over the pages, I was astounded to hear familiar voices ring out from within my depths, long forgotten by the self who had muffled those voices with jadedness and experience. Many of the stories in that box were childish, but all the more worth keeping. There were also a few surprises, turns of phrases that were simple yet keen and insightful, phrases whose spirit I doubted I could recapture.

I admire the girl who typed up those pages ever so meticulously, who spent hours reworking the words, scratching whole pages sometimes, yet hung on to those pages still for their hidden value which could not be articulated. I admire the girl who was fearless enough to try, to nurture those internal voices into full-fleshed beings. Her fingers molded to the computer keys on which they did their dance. To her, it was second nature. She didn’t choose to write; rather, the writing chose her.

It has just struck me that I’ve become the writer who doesn’t write any more. In other words, I’ve joined the masses of disillusioned writers who have given up. I need a new box. I need to let my fingers do their dance. I need to find that girl and her box of dreams. I need her to give me a good kick in the butt.