I dream a little dream — a secret dream of being a storyteller — to spread open a blank paper of possibilities and bring fantasy into reality. I wish to wander with ideas in the day and chase the words down at night; to give vibrant voices to silent thoughts; to create pleasure in mundane. I wish to poet the painful wisdom of maturity; to fiction fake worlds of memories; to weave the fabric of life with tapestries of experiences.
Let me live a life of a storyteller — translating thousands of lives with my pen and paper. No more weariness of a workhorse trudging through long murky road. Let me live a life of a storyteller — transcribing tragedies into comedies with happy endings. No more slavery of a worker ant circling the debris of what could not be whole again. Let me live a life of a storyteller — scripting merciful deaths to despair and despondency.
No more scavenging of a worker bee in the wild reporting to the beehive at the command of a whimsical queen bee. No more shod ox ploughing fields or shackled elephant performing in a circus. No. I shall be pleased with the precious lifeline of writing my time away.
So let me live a life of a storyteller.