My most regretted mistake

is to have had a dream. It started a few years back, and I clung on to it as though it was the life of me. I know no other reason why I didn’t let go other than the fact that it seemed easy, natural and promising. It changed nothing about me; it did not, like JKJ says, “instruct, elevate and enlighten” my days in the sun. It was something that struck, and back then, I was glad that it did. The dream was of me writing a book. The dreams that ensued were all of the plots, and those that swept my mind in the nights were all of me winning coveted awards and deep throated announcers yelling into the crowds about how I was the youngest winner of those awards. You might know, such dreams are strong ego pills. You go to bed at the end of a pallid day, not happy at all about the state of affairs, be it the world or your home. When you wake up in the morning after such dreams, you care not which side of the bed you walk out of. There is an uncanny spring to your step which you yourself can’t explain, and ladies on the streets turn around and whisper between themselves as you pass by, and you can hear giggles and feel their sight stuck on your back, only hoping that you turn around and give them a wink. In short, you feel you’re the King of the world!

But when the only laptop you have ever had crashes four times in a single night, dragging all the contents of the external hard drive with it – along with some 203 pages of the book – to some unforeseen and unfathomable doom, you can’t help but regret dreaming about writing the book. I know I could have recovered the data after the first crash, but that seems futile thought when a puff of smoke erupts out of the ventilator. You can only stand back and let the chaotic orchestra continue. If I had been in possession of a video camera just then, along with the customary lighting equipments, I could have been witness to a symphony of sorts – with all sorts of weird and unearthly noises spilling forth in chunks. Believe me, I was hoping for a moment that the roof of my room would fly off and green lights would flash down along with a white beam that would bear forth the great Spielberg’s ET himself. But, ahh, that in no way whatsoever compensates for one’s loss of his life’s works, at least that which he prizes above all else which he ever prized or will. The loss of a dream stings and bites, it claws on your back when you’re in be, it sends ants crawling behind your neck. The blanket doesn’t seem long enough to cover your feet, and when you pull it up hoping it will magically elongate, it pulls down the hair down onto your face on its way down. It seems unnaturally warm while you can hear the A/C belching away above your head, and when you turn it up, the heat turns more oppressive. Pshaw! 

As much as you lament your losses and blame Lenovo and Seagate for their sorry attempts at recruiting a brand loyalist – which I would have become if not for this mishap – you ultimately end up mourning yourself. Could you not have done more, you stupid fat-head (fingers pointing at me, please)?! You beat yourself up even though they ask you not to, only hoping all the while that it hurts. But it doesn’t: all the pain decides to linger for ever in your head. That dream will be the death of me, I know. It is my most regretted mistake, yes, but I regret it a contented man.