Whatever keeps your thoughts rolling at night, do it. Whatever screams at you so loud that you can not ignore it, Do it. Do what you want to do, what you love to do. Do it and do it well.

There is a large graveyard on my way home. I walk past It all the time, all the while feeling a familiar fear and sadness. It is neglected and creepy. The graves have cracks with plants growing out of them. It feels haunted. I get chills just by walking past it. like I should, It is a graveyard after all. Where forgotten dreams and love lie.

Dogs too. I have never understood why dogs like to hang around graveyards. I hold my head high because I’m told they can smell fear. Honestly, I have reached that point in life where I cannot afford to be run after by dogs. I fake this confidence as I click my three inch heels, acting like the dog’s stare does not completely render me lifeless. They are comfortable shoes really. Thick and well balanced. I bought them for walking after all.

This is the place I was brought to at twelve years old. I  was spending too much time reading the one book. “At least If it was a Science book” they said. “Of what use is that book you’re reading?”

Unbeknownst  to them, my affair with words was taking root. I was discovering my heart and my passion within those brown pages. Old and Dusty, this book was the most familiar scent I knew. A scent I loved and longed for as I sat through those long grueling Science lessons. It gave me reason to finish my homework fast so I could return to it without fear of rebuke. I found my passion. My purpose.

They led me to the entrance of the graveyard and showed me where I could bury this love. If it wasn’t ABOTT, I had no business reading it. If it wasn’t Algebra, I had no business spending hours alone with a pen and notebook. They showed me, at the far end, where their passions to create art laid to rest. The earlier I buried this desire to create, the better it would be for me and my future. I would find a nice job at a nice company and a nice husband and be a normal Ugandan woman.

I planned the funeral and said farewell to it. To this burning desire to write and tell stories. But I couldn’t bury it just yet, I couldn’t bare to. The guilt wouldn’t let me. So I did what any coward could and abandoned it, moved on and hoped somebody would dig the grave.

lost-dreams

For years, I occasionally dropped in to visit my ailing dream, discarded like an old sweater. I often felt guilty, humoured it for a while and then went back to my life. To my satisfactory life. I secured a nice plot at the grave yard, under a tree shade where I would soon be burying it. Comfortable to visit, it would rest easy and its grave wouldn’t develop cracks from too much exposure to the sun.

But as fate would have it, I met Alice. A voice of reason. A voice of hope and passion. You see, unlike me, Alice had already found her voice. Alice was brave and daring. She couldn’t bury her dreams. She couldn’t destroy the perfect plan God had set in motion for her.  She is a dreamer who will stop at nothing to reach fruition. She holds the world in her hands and is fearlessly pursuing her dreams. She is a writer. She is writing. She is telling you to do that which makes your heart race.

Do not bury your dreams. Do not let your talents rot. You can not lose with passion on your side.

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