A Chest Of Dreams

'Humans collect two things, money and memory. '

Who am I and what do I’ve? This was what I used to ask relentlessly in my prayers.

Thank God. I might be nothing but I’ve a chest. An ordinary chest, to be precise. It’s not very stupendous as well. Perhaps stupendous is a very misleading word, but I don’t care, do I? I’m sure you are intrigued by my boastful introduction. Well, everyone has a chest, a wardrobe, a bookshelf or anything that can store things. I also said that it’s ordinary. So why I still care to describe it to you all tirelessly?

Because I don’t know how to use it.

I used to ask around and inquire anyone who appeared to be wise. My mother told me the colour of the hair indicated the intelligence of a mortal and my father added to that by telling me numbers of wrinkles may reveal the depth of a scholar. I believed in my parents. But my parents’ little trick backfired when I asked them how to use my chest.

They were astounded. Busily concealed their grayish hairs and dreaded wrinkles, they sought for the long gone youth. From that moment, I understood one thing. Even a wise man wouldn’t know how to use my chest.

But I never gave in to my ill-fated life. I continue to ask, hoping someday, somehow somebody can tell me how to use it. Then I heard people say, ‘why don’t you ask the person who makes it teaches you how to utilize the chest of mine?’. I just shrugged and pretended as if I had no idea of its origin. Of course I know the origin, but knowing it doesn’t make me wiser. In contrast, it makes me look like a complete fool.

I made the chest myself.

I’m not a carpenter nor am I hoping myself to become one. I made that chest many years ago and the exact date was already forgotten. Nor do I remember why I create it. The purpose? The material? I couldn’t remember at all.

Maybe the absence of the chest in my life has already erased the trace of its origin. Maybe it’s just I already get used to the life without the chest I created meticulously and painstakingly. Pardon me for not be able to recall any detail of the making of that chest. If you are willing to assist me, we must solve the more pressing issue first.

How to use that chest?

I’m sure you know a thing that serves no purpose will soon be discarded, forgotten and eroded by the marching time. It’s bizarre that after so many years of life without it, suddenly, it has come back to my life. It just springs back to my picture, too abruptly, all of a sudden. Maybe it’s really useless, but now, I ‘m more determined than ever to find the way to utilize it. Don’t ask me why, I loath it. Perhaps I’m too exhausted to answer that or I don’t even have an answer. Too shameful to answer it, I choose to be evasive.

I once asked my parents why I don’t know how to use it. They said because it has no shape and container that is shapeless like a bottomless bottle, stores nothing, serves no one. Till this moment, you are still baffled by the dimension of my chest, aren’t you? I don’t blame you.

Because it really doesn’t have shape.

But the detailed description won’t help, will it? Who will want to use a shapeless chest? As I continue to seek for the answer, there were few times I thought I had come close to the answer. At the end, it’s just another futile effort. Eventually, determined to make the chest ‘seemingly’ useful, I decided to put something in. Therefore, I started writing my ‘wishlist’ or my ‘dreams’ in some colour papers and casted them into the chest.

Until now, I still put my ‘dreams’ inside it, fantasizing that somehow my dreams will come true if I continue writing my ‘dreams’ on the colour papers. I’ve no idea what am I doing. All I want is to keep the chest occupied, not being abandoned unavailingly.

There are many things I can’t reminisce but I could still remember my first ever ‘dream’ I wrote was, ‘I want to become a physicist.’ At that time, sci-fi comics are a new buzz in our society. Shortly after it’s introduced, it had created an immediate sensation and with the production of the sci-fi movies, the hype was pushed to the record high. That’s when I wished to become a scientist.

Later when people got bored by unrealistic flying and invisible men, a new social realism slowly displaced the fantasy. That’s when I wrote ‘ I want to become a president.’ Watching our president, who was renowned for his polemic oration addressing his supporters enthusiastically, I vowed to follow his steps.

Soon after that, I’ve written few other dreams. Most of them were products of the hormone infatuation when I went through a period of inferiority complex and insecure. When I was introduced to an enchanting next-to-door girl, I scribbled down ‘ I want to become a good lover.’ After I realized I was just being duped by the seemingly innocent girl, I maneuvered my pen furiously, ‘I don’t need a girl.’

So many years have passed since I first wrote ‘dreams’ to my faithful chest. Now, my interest in its real usage has been rekindled, inexplicably and bewilderedly. I try to recall all ‘dreams’ I have casted in. Some of them have been forgotten, some of them are still remembered vividly.

‘I want to be successful.’

‘I want to be a singer.’

‘I want to be a pianist.’

‘I want to be a bodybuilder.’

As I flip through every ‘dreams’ in my mind, I can’t help but to smile mirthfully to every youthful and willful dream. Then, I notice that.

None of the dreams I chucked into the box has come true. I owe a cramped apartment, not a lavishly decorated mansion. I excel in all subjects except physics. Even an easily achievable dream like ‘I want a watch’, I failed to secure every single one of them.

Dismayed. I concluded the chest is indeed good for nothing. But commonsense tells me everything exists for a reason. Is there a thing that existing for being useless? I doubt.

There is nothing I can do as well. Self-doubt is like a venom, gnawing in my veins. As hopes, even false hopes gradually recede from my picture, I decide to make my one last wish. Reaching for a pen and a piece of a green-coloured paper, I scrabble down ‘I want to use you.’

Knowing readily it’s a fruitless effort, I still fold the paper carefully and cast it one last look before putting it into the chest. Unbeknown to me, the moment I’m watching the colour paper disappear in the chest, something crosses my mind. It’s the question I used to ask when I was young.

‘Who am I and what do I have?’

‘I’m a columnist. I’ve a writing career,’ answer me instantly. As if struck by lightning, I’m petrified and speechless for a while. Can I be wronged? I break into convulsive spasm and tears of relief drift down my cheeks.

I guess you’ve already realized what’s happening. If you have no idea, I give you a clue. Of all ‘dreams’ I wrote, columnist or writer is not among my ‘I wants’ list. O, I’m getting delirious now. Please feel free to interrupt me when you don’t understand anything.

Clueless? Let me tell you. The chest I’ve, is not a wish granter. It’ll never grant me wishes. That’s why nothing I wrote ever came true. On the contrary, whenever I’m drifting off from my destiny, this chest draws me back from my seemingly promising fantasy. I’m destined to be a writer! Not a president, not a scientist!

After so many years spent in made-believe wilderness, I never fully realize that may chest stores yesterday’s fantasy and childhood dreams, which is pivotal. I can’t imagine being a person who is bounded by plethora of unrealistic illusions. Neither can I imagine a life of thaumaturge and legerdemain. Such a simple wisdom takes me so long to grasp and comprehend. Maybe I’m really a fool.

Wasting no time, I reach for my fountain pen and stack of blank papers. Then, an article comes to mind. Subconsciously, I pen down everything and make sure there’s nothing left unwritten. I’ve even decided the title. It’s going to be ‘A Chest of Dreams.’

Feeling contented, I sob again, this time in unrestrained jubilance.