Dearest gentle reader, this author must confess that she has spent an embarrassing amount of time with her nose deep in books—that she has stacked thousands of the most frivolous and passionate adventures in an unsuspecting, dreary corner of her room, smudging the pages with sticky hands and memorizing every word and sentence. This love, she must confess, grew along with her, and brought with it various literary genres that now feed her imagination beyond what could ever be accepted by high society. This author now, if she would allow herself to admit it, has become quite the dreamer. She has become a woman who dreams of balls, masquerades, and the kiss of the perfect gentleman under a bright, moonlit sky.
Oh, but far be it from her to disrespect the customs of high society—heaven forbid. But between you and her, dear reader… she has allowed herself to dream. And to imagine. And to hope.
Yet this author, though in love with fantasy, romance, and the grandeur of the perfect ball within castle walls, is often reminded of the realities of her present society. As much as she wishes to run to her books and remain in fairyland, she is constantly pulled back by duties that disrupt her dreamlike state. That is not to say she has no dream in the real world. Oh no, far from it. Her dreams are vast—endless, if she herself would admit it. But society does not seem keen on allowing those dreams to fully flourish, to transform fantasy into something tangible. Something real.
Dear reader, this author confesses that society has become a land of chaos. The colors that were once vivid and alive have dulled into aching gray—a shade that leaves one with a quiet discontent for life. This is especially true within the generation your author finds herself in. Ha! One must not scoff at the realities that surround oneself, but yours truly finds it almost impossible not to. It is hard to accept the injustices that paint the streets of one’s homeland; the pain etched into the faces of her people. To wake up expecting tragedy before one has even had the chance to break fast. To reach out to friends and family and pray that violence does not reach their doors.
It is hard to dream when one is outraged and frustrated, so in tune with the clamor of the streets that every sign, every roar, and every raised flag becomes a reflection of the steady thump and skip of one’s heart. The world this author lives in is far from the one her childlike mind once created. It resembles her nightmares more than her dreams.
Some may find her view pessimistic, and at its core, it is woven with shadows. But how can one truly be a part of society if one does not accept the burden that it carries on its shoulders? The world, as this author sees it, is in pain. And in loss. A period in which each and every individual should recognize the hurt of their neighbors. A time to forget race, origin, and gender—and to see society as it is: people. People who dream, who need, who love, and who care.
It is time society rises for those who can no longer fight. To care for those who have no one left to care for them. To dream with the dreamers and stand beside the fighters. Dearest reader, this author desires what society calls childish. Impossible even. How could a world of endless differences ever live in peace? But she reminds you—she is a great dreamer. And she believes her readers are too.