When I was 8 I saw this beautiful book called "Alice in Wonderland". Even before I started reading it I liked it enough as it had a drawing of a pretty girl, wearing a pretty frock. As I started reading Alice enchanted me and made more sense than anything in the whole wide world. But you see adults didn't pay much attention to my talks as they felt that the whole wide world for an 8 year old is not really a big place and thus not worth paying attention too.
As soon as I put down the volume of my favorite book I had made up my mind to be a writer, maybe even a poet for alice in wonderland felt like poetry to my mind. I felt that it was something that'll keep me happy. Joy exploded through my tiny heart as I ran skipping and jumping to tell my parents about my new found purpose in life.
When the pounding of my heart settled down a bit and I could draw deep breaths of air which was the result of my excessive running and the excitement flowing through me I reiterated my desire to be a writer to them. I simply said "I want to be a writer" and i beamed at my own words.
My mom smiled and said "sure dear, you can be anything you want"
This was not the answer I had expected from her as I didn't want to be anything else. I just wanted to be a writer, so being anything else was of no relevance. Oh these adults never really understand , do they? I decided to explain it to her a little more in detail. So I began again by saying.
"i don't wanna be anything but a writer" I smiled as the words left my lips. Even the thought of being a writer gave some kind of semblance to my life. As a child it made more sense to me than as an adult.
She looked away from the television which was playing some kind of music and said "ofcourse dear you can be anything you want" and then she again went back to her television set. Oh these adults I exclaimed softly, never understood what I said. But I didn't hate her for not understanding even though I really simplified it because unlike them I understand. They are grown ups and with time they have lost the child in them and thus the inability to understand.
As I was walking back to my room the notes from the tv set drifted to my ears. All of it seemed nice but it was difficult to comprehend by my tiny self. Too many instruments playing together never enchanted me as it was difficult to pay attention to any one i felt. But that's just me and as I was a child at that time my opinion in comparison to that of adults never really mattered.
So I opened my favorite book and read aloud.
`Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?' Alice speaks to Cheshire Cat