I get why Atlas Shrugged


I always tell people that reality is but a compulsory break from my dreams. It really is. Reality is where I go to greet people, be polite, get an education and feed my earthly body.

As for the rest of my vast existence, it is in dreaming I come to know myself.

And so, this life so beautifully bestowed upon me has been but an ongoing journey to the inner and outer walls of this self I call mine.

Often, I accidentally forget to remember to exit my dreams, and rather awkward situations present themselves to me: “what?.. Yes, I’m listening. Go on…”, as I continue to drift further and further away.

The other day a strange feeling came over me. I was walking, one step at a time, as I was taught, but the further I got, the further away I walked from myself. At various points, I thought of stopping altogether, turning back and changing directions. “Where to?”, it didn’t matter. I was desperate to crawl back into who I thought myself to be, but reality is often what we avoid: I was changing.

In walking, I was entering into unfamiliar ground within myself. A person I had not known nor seen before. A weird glow around a thought I had deemed inconceivable.

I was changing.

I would have cried, were it not the wind. (and the will to translate those to-be tears in words)

But I was changing.

My priorities were changing, my dreams were changing, and suddenly what I defined myself to be had vanished, faded, washed out and soon forgotten. I got lost, and it didn’t matter in which direction I tried to run, for in reality, I was simply standing there.

Disoriented, I shrugged. There must be some power in that, I thought — shrugging.





An Artist and his Art

I remember what I once wrote, “in order to understand the artist, one must seek to understing his art”. Sounded poetic enough for a 18-year-old bored out of her brackets in History class, but today, while I procrastinate, such words come back to me in a diferent light.

I see myself enjoying the art of writing more and more. Plays, particularly. Firstly because they are a quick release of the frustration I inhale each day. Secondly, because, somehow, they are a form a therapy.

I had never looked back on my plays from an analytical point of view, but then I accidentally read them once more and found myself in a place I had not anticipated.

Flipping through my play’s pages, I revisited myself.

I read somewhere that authors are often a reflection of their characters, particularly the heroes and heroines of the story. After a good laugh and a slightly absurdist frown, I actually gave it a thought. Me? Heroine?

More like the opposite. There is a recurrent character in the plays I write, a kind of side-kick with a vilainish flair, forever questioning what shouldn’t be, and forever learning lessons that one could avoid.

That ground-breaking, rebel-ranting, status-quo shaker character follows me each time I open that blank Microsoft Word document. I rest my fingers on the keyboards and look the other way, only to look back and be confronted with monologues and soliloquies that are unknown to me, but at the same time, familiar.

Characters whose voices scream louder than plots and whose actions dilute stage directions, these are the characters that I find myself spitting onto that screen each time I begin to write a play.

And now I wonder, what are all these characters saying to the world? What are they all saying to me?

It seems to me that, albeit diferent in their settings, these characters are but diferent colours of the rainbow, which at the end of the day have the same colour as their common root.

(after this analogy, I might consider taking Politics seriously, as my writing career just took an aweful turn)

An an amateur writer, this is an epiphany I’ve learnt to deal with. And it seems to be that it has become my duty to release all the characters inside of me, to tell all the stories that need to be told, wether through my voice, or through several characters that I pick as I travel through my existence.