I had a dream last night where I was a writer.
I wrote stories. Stories that were long, spanning pages. I created manuscripts at a speed unknown to man and mailed them to be read by publication houses, and unbeknownst to me, the officials would take my stories home and have their wives read them, and then the wives would recite the stories to their children later at night, a free recall, independent of my words, as ‘a story only works if the gist of it can be summarized within few lines, and the fewer the better,’ I was told. The children, those who went to school would repaint their mothers’ words to their friends, exaggerating greatly of the heroic deeds the protagonist made and drawing inferences from their own lives; children who were homeschooled would take to their sketching books and draw the heroes with their own faces on it, holding big swords and wearing fancy armor, and though limited by their art skills, they would not be disheartened for imagination is where the real magic of the story happened.
The stories I wrote were not necessarily fantasy, or action, or drama, or romance. As much as I wanted to fix myself into a box — my hatred for spheres and circles bleeds into my writing and often, I find myself desiring to confide within the rectangle of pages, never pages that are blank but with lines, as I find my freehand to be one of my weaker attributes — I could never do so. My achievements, if listed, by myself or my familiars, would account for my mannerisms throughout the day, which also permeate the writing essence I have, that is, my own essence as a being. The stories were a mix of everything.
For instance, one of them was the story of a king who would disguise himself as a dancer, and would be found in taverns where people would come to burn their nights in nothing but ale. The king’s day full of administrative work, security enhancements, kingdom relations, and other diplomacies started being a bore to him as he looked forward to his time inside one of the many taverns that spanned his own kingdom. Accompanied by other dancers, disguised and free, the king would dance for hours and hours, would drink and yell, shout and scream, and would disappear come dawn.
Soon, the life of a king started to weigh heavily on him when the realization occurred to him that he was born to dance. What was he to do in such circumstance? Give up the throne? Hand over the kingdom to one of their neighbors? Surely, his son succeeding him was out of the question as he was not of age. The king was met with a dilemma. And so he thought about it, thought long and hard, until ultimately he called all his ministers to an important meeting, “a meeting to decide the fate of the kingdom,” as he’d called it. The halls were filled, multitudes marched in, and all sat, waiting for the king. An eagerness was displayed in his loyal subjects, loved as he was, to come and address them and relieve them of their anxieties.
However, the king was nowhere to be found. They rushed into his chambers — empty. They searched the royal castle, the lush halls decorated with his face, past the great courtyard with his statue standing in stone, triumphant and mighty, but it seemed as though the more they searched, the farther they strayed from his trail. Upon days and days of searching, it was concluded that the beloved king had forsaken his kingdom. That night, there was a fire in the capital and all of the king’s beloved subjects were called to feed the fire pictures of the king, the flag of the kingdom, and any memoirs that the people had to rid themselves and the kingdom of the past associated with the atrocious king. His name was forbidden in the land and if anyone was found discussing any matter pertaining to the “lost king,” the penalty was death.
Eventually, the kingdom fell into disarray. Relations with other kingdoms worsened, business started declining, food became scarce, crimes increased, and a civil war was right around the corner. In such troubled times, the army took charge and martial law was in effect. In the underbelly of the royal capital, a revolution was rising slowly. People gathered in taverns to discuss how to overthrow the oppressive militants that swarmed the streets and made their lives hell. They sat and talked, made groups and chose leaders, who then decided which buildings to bomb and which patrols to swarm. In such troubled times, the people found comfort in 2 things and 2 things alone — drinking, and dancing.
And so arose, from one revolutionary corner, a leader of a group that wanted to help overthrow the military, that had a deep understanding of how the army worked, where the patrol would be in deep concentration, where the impact of ambush would be most effective. No one knew who this man was or where he had come from or how his knowledge of political affairs was so great — they all knew him to be just a dancer. And who could it be, if not the lost and forgotten king!
The revolution grew steadily and with the king’s help, he overthrew his own empire. A war did follow but no harm was caused to the civilians and the military rule was displaced once again by the revolutionaries who promised to build the kingdom from the ground up. They swore not to set out on the mistakes the old king made, and promised to the masses better and longer lives for all, lives full of drinking, and of course, dancing. Beloved by his followers once again, they appointed the king-turned-dancer-now-turned-revolutionary-leader to be the new king of the kingdom, and he realized this is what he was meant to do, after all. Except this time, he could also dance while doing it.
Such stories I would write, and before long, I was a writer loved by all. I received offers from across the world — people wondering if I needed an assistant, people who had an opinion on how the editorial work in my previous story could be improved and how they were the perfect choice to do so, had I given them a chance. Such grandeur was not meant for me, and in my dream, a little embarrassed as I am, ashamed even, I admit, I allowed myself to become a slave to stardom. I drove around in expensive cars, wore expensive clothes, ate expensive food at expensive restaurants. Anywhere I went, my tickets would be booked by someone or the other in the promise that I write a few words for them.
Fine. In my dream, I sold myself and my words. I sold my tongue to speak for those who wanted to say something but did not know how. I sold my skill and my greatest gift — my language — just for fame. Very soon, my stardom cost me. I found myself in the middle of a few controversies, and then in many. I found my words had been misplaced, taken out of context, taken for granted, shaped and molded into something they were not, words designed to cause pain, words designed to stir pungent and repulsive reactions, words designed to hurt. Did I have someone to blame? Or just myself?
I fell off the face of the Earth. My name, once known for its greatness, soon lost its essence and was forgotten. No one read my stories anymore, and my manuscripts collected dust on my table in a small apartment where I lived, alone, feeding on 2 day old leftovers.
Or maybe, let’s take another scenario. I had a dream last night where I was a king. But my story was written by some writer. I had no control over what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. What if I told you I enjoyed being loved by all and ruling my kingdom? What if I told you I couldn’t walk properly if I tried, forget dancing!
My life was ruined by this writer, just like he ruined his own. His words, however superfluous or fictitious, created a meticulously crafted web of lies that, in the end, cost him his career. Who is a writer if no one reads his words? Who is a king that dances?
Who am I? Who are you?
And why are you reading this story still, even when it gets you nowhere?
Do you wish to gain something out of it? To get a message? Or is it just for entertainment?
Am I doing a good job entertaining you? No, not as a king, but as a writer!
I’ll try again, with another story. Maybe that will help. I have the perfect setting for it. It goes like this :
